Jack of Knives, Queen of Poison
by curlycue2102
Summary: Formerly "The Curious Case of Jack and Holmes." Bromance. Most likely Watson/OC/Holmes. Watson's getting married and Holmes isn't happy about it. Mrs Hudson's niece moves in to Watson's old room. Chaos ensues while Holmes faces his hardest case yet.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: **This is the first thing I've ever written that isn't school related, so please cut me some slack.

**Disclaimer: **The only thing I own is Clara.

**Prologue**

"Clarissa Marie!" yelled a shrill voice from the downstairs study; the voice of Annabel Barker, to be exact. Annabel was the respected matron of the Barker family, which was comprised of her doting husband, George Barker, her three beautiful sons, George Jr., Harry, and John, and her slightly belligerent (but still amiable) daughter, Clarissa (who preferred to be called Clara).

Clara trudged down the stairs muttering something along the lines of, "what does that woman want now," or "it wasn't me, I swear." When Clara finally descended the staircase, she walked into the dimly lit office of her father.

"Why don't you take a seat, darling," Mr. Barker said calmly (but somewhat nervously, Clara noted). Clara's father was seated at his desk, across from her, and her mother was standing beside Mr. Barker with her hand on his shoulder. The whole scene was rather intimidating.

"Your mother and I have something we want to discuss with you," said Mr. Barker. _This can't be good, _thought Clara.

"We have decided, with Harry's impending admission to the university, that it might be best if you go to live with your Aunt Martha in London."

Clara couldn't say she was speechless; she was six and twenty years of age and quickly becoming an old maid. For months now, she had had the feeling that something like this might occur. It wasn't that her parents hadn't tried to marry her off. No, quite the contrary, they had tried with a valiant effort. It was just that Clara was a bit _eccentric_, to put it gently. Now she was an attractive woman, with desirable traits (small stature, fair complexion, etc.). However, it was her personality that drove her suitors away. She seemed to have no interests in relationships of any kind and preferred to read or paint rather than converse with others. She was perfectly polite and well-mannered, but below the surface it was clear that Clara wanted nothing more than to escape the idle teatime chats to which she was so often subjected.

"I see," Clara responded tentatively.

"It's not that we don't want you here, Clara love, but the expenses of your brother's education will be numerous, and the practical thing to do – "

"The practical thing to do is find you a husband! We have exhausted all possible resources in this town. We can only hope that you will more luck finding someone more suitable in London," Mrs. Barker interjected.

"When do I leave?" Clara asked, solemnly.

"One day should be sufficient time for you to collect your belongings; you will leave the day after tomorrow," Mrs. Barker replied.

Clara nodded, and began to leave the room quickly in an attempt to hide the tears that were gathering in her eyes. However, her father's voice stopped her:

"Darling, please don't be cross with us, you know that your mother and I care about you very deeply."

Clara simply glanced at him and began climbing the stairs back up to her bedroom. Once safely inside the confines of her room, Clara pulled out a worn black leather journal and began to write.

_19__th__ August, 1888_

_Today, my parents have informed me that I am to go to live with my Aunt Martha in London. It is fascinating how readily my parents are able to throw me out of their home. I am offended, to say the least, but I know that in London I might be able to have a better life. From what I understand, Aunt Martha is the landlady of a house on Baker Street. She and I have only met a handful of times, but, if my memory is correct, she is a very kind and compassionate woman. I do not think she has any children of her own. But still, I hope I will not be a burden. _

_-CB_

*

The next morning, Clara awoke and felt a twinge of pain in her heart – she had almost forgotten that she was to leave the following day. Clara lifted her gray tabby cat, Alastair, off of her lap before getting out of bed. It took about three hours for Clara to pack everything she needed. After packing, Clara realized that she should notify her friends that she was leaving. But who were her friends? She had acquaintances, of course, but no true friends. All of Clara's friends had already gotten married, and therefore she hardly saw them. It was then that Clara was fully struck by her own loneliness. She had never before dwelled on the concept of companionship, but realizing the extent of her solitude quite unsettling. With this thought in her mind, Clara resolved to start anew in London.

*

"Remember to be helpful around the house! I won't have any daughter of mine acting like a leech," Mrs. Barker told Clara as she fixed her travelling scarf.

"I won't, Mother," was Clara's response.

"And make sure to be polite!"

"I always am," Clara replied, stepping into the jet-black stagecoach.

"Don't forget to write every week!" Mrs. Barker yelled through tears at the retreating carriage. Clara simply nodded. Her mother's range of emotions was almost intolerable. As she turned away from the window, she put aside her old life and looked onwards towards London.

**Chapter I**

The voyage lasted about a day. When Clara arrived at 221b Baker Street, she was quite nervous. She knocked on the front door of the building, only to find that the door was open. She stepped inside and quickly thanked the coach driver for carrying her bags into the foyer. She set Alastair's carrier down at the foot of the stairs, which were directly in front of the door. Suddenly, Clara was embraced by an elderly woman, who she presumed to be her aunt, Martha Hudson.

"Oh deary, you've arrived!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed cheerfully. "How was your trip?"

"It was pleasant," Clara started anxiously, "I know my parents talked to you about this before, but I sincerely hope that I am not an imposition of any sort…"

"Oh, don't be ridiculous! Any daughter of my brother's is always welcome in my home. Plus, one of my tenants just recently moved out, so your timing is quite convenient."

"Well, thank you for your hospitality, it is greatly appreciated," Clara said, smiling. "Now, shall I take my things upstairs?"

"Yes, your room is just across from the first flight of stairs. My old tenant, Dr. Watson, should be up there. His business partner still lives here, so he stops by often. I'm sure he would be glad to show you around," Mrs. Hudson replied.

*

When Clara had finished carrying her bags up the stairs, she found that the door next to hers was cracked open. Inside, she could see two men having a conversation by a window. One was sitting down, while the other was standing. The standing man seemed rather exasperated, Clara noted. Curious, she strained her ears to hear the exchange.

"Holmes, I'm getting married and that's that! We've already set the date; the wedding will be the 5th of February. Now, you can choose to come or you can stay here in this wretched room, as you have been doing for the past month! I've asked you to be my best man before, but I'll ask you again. At least consider it!" the standing man said.

The sitting man seemed as if he was about to respond, but suddenly he paused and made eye contact with Clara through the cracked door. Embarrassed and ashamed of eavesdropping, Clara began to speak.

"Pardon me sirs, but my aunt, Mrs. Hudson, informed me that a Dr. Watson would be able to show me to my room. Do you know where I might find him?" Clara asked.

By this time, the sitting man had stood and opened the door. He and the standing man were in the doorway watching her carefully.

"That would be me," the standing man said. "Dr. John Watson, pleasure to meet you," he continued, removing his hat and bowing slightly.

"Clara Barker. And the pleasure is mine," Clara replied, smiling bashfully.

"This," Dr. Watson paused, indicating the previously sitting man, "is my colleague, Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

Mr. Holmes' eyes quickly scanned over Clara before he nodded his head at her courteously.

"Well, Holmes, I do believe this conversation is finished for today. Now, if you don't mind, I understand it is my duty to show this young woman her new lodgings," Watson said with forced politeness.

"Yes, yes, of course Watson, old boy. Go right ahead," Holmes replied distractedly. He then turned to Clara and said, "Pleased to meet you, Miss Barker." With that, Sherlock Holmes slammed the door.

Only mildly alarmed, Clara began to follow Mr. Watson into the room.

*

_22__nd__ August, 1888_

_Today, I arrived at my new home. Aunt Martha was exceedingly kind and hospitable, and I trust that she will make me feel quite welcome in London. I had the pleasure of meeting a Dr. John Watson, the previous owner of my new flat (if what I am currently inhabiting can be called such). I also had the pleasure (?) of meeting one of my fellow residents at 221b Baker Street. His name was Sherlock Holmes, and I am not quite sure what to make of him. He seems very eccentric and aloof. He barely said two words to me. John, (Dr. Watson permitted me to call him such – it seems that he expects to be visiting 221b Baker Street often) informed me that Mr. Holmes works as a detective. He also warned me of some of his "unusual" habits, which I have yet to experience. Also, as it turns out, Mr. Holmes has a dog, Gladstone. The poor creature had the misfortune of coming in contact with Alastair earlier today. However, John said that the scratches will heal in a few days (thank goodness). If what I've experienced today is an indication of the months to come, I'm in for an adventure, to say the least._

_-CB_

*

"Clara, would you mind taking this tea tray up to Mr. Holmes?" Mrs. Hudson asked, handing Clara the aforementioned tray.

"No, of course not," Clara replied.

Clara climbed the seventeen steps leading up to Holmes' room, tea cups clattering, and knocked on Holmes' door. It was noon, but, as Clara had come to realize, Holmes did not exactly run on the same time as everyone else, so it was quite possible he was still asleep. However, he did open the door, looking very dishevled.

"Um, sorry to bother you Mr. Holmes, but my aunt thought you might like a bit of tea," Clara said uncomfortably.

Holmes glanced at the tea impatiently, but allowed her to go into his room to set the tray down. This was the first time Clara had ever entered his living space. She had seen his room from the hallway, but had never actually ventured inside. There were papers strewn all about the place, and the air was cloudy with dust and tobacco smoke. There were various books and glass beakers lying around and it looked as if Holmes had recently induced some kind of chemical reaction.

"Admiring my workplace?" Holmes asked with an amused smirk.

Clara felt her face flush with embarrassment – she hadn't realized that she had been staring.

"No need to be embarrassed, Miss Barker, your curiosity is perfectly natural. Although, I must say, for someone so interested in me I seldom see you," Holmes said.

Clara was somewhat agitated by his arrogance and couldn't help herself from snapping, "What makes you think I'm interested in you? I hardly know you."

Holmes, however, did not seem to notice her irritation. "Well, it's perfectly obvious. Every time I open the door I see you look inside in an attempt to see what I'm doing. The way you just glanced around the room was another indication." he replied. "I see you haven't been painting recently," he added nonchalantly.

Clara was almost too stunned to respond. "How on earth did you know that I paint?" she asked, her previous agitation beginning to be replaced by fascination.

"Actually, I said that you _haven't _been painting. But when I first met you, you had calluses on your fingers from holding a paintbrush. They have since faded," he said while staring at her hands.

"I didn't know you had been studying me so closely…" Clara started, suddenly feeling self-conscious.

Holmes' eyes lit up as he said, "It is imperative to study a stranger upon first meeting them. In my profession, details are extremely important in determining suspects. Especially the small ones, for they are by far the most important. You can tell almost anything about a person from the smallest of things."

Clara looked at him curiously and asked, "What else can you tell about me?"

Oh the question! The dreaded question that he was so often asked. The question that caused his relationships to fail. The question that he simply could not resist answering. But just then, by some act of God, Watson came barreling through the doorway.

"Oh – er sorry, I wasn't expecting anyone else to be here. Good day Miss Clara." Watson looked between the two of them, "I hope I'm not interrupting anything, but Holmes, I must talk to you at once."

"Don't fret, I was just leaving. Good day, John. Nice seeing you again. Mr. Holmes, I do hope you will have some tea, it will greatly relieve my aunt to see you ingest something," Clara said. And with that, she left the two men to converse alone.

*

After Clara shut the door behind her, Holmes turned to Watson and raised his eyebrows. "You're on a first name basis with her?" he asked amusedly.

Watson scoffed. "Since I have to come here so often to check up on you, I figured that some level of familiarity would be expected. She is a nice girl. Try to at least be civil to her, Holmes," Watson implored.

"Anyway, that is beside the point," Watson continued, shaking his head, "What I came here to tell you was – "

"Wait," Holmes said, cutting Watson off. As Holmes walked towards the door, Watson shot him a confused and annoyed look.

"I have an experiment," Holmes said simply. "Clara!" he yelled, using her Christian name for the first time.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes?" Clara replied, poking her head through her doorway to see him.

"Come here, please," he ordered.

"Why, whatever for?" Clara asked, crinkling her nose in confusion.

"Just come here. It will be worth your while, I swear," he said. Clara walked into his room again and Holmes motioned for her to sit on his rather grimy looking couch.

"Please, Watson, continue," Holmes instructed.

Watson, who still looked utterly perplexed, did as was told, "Well, what I was saying was, I read in the paper a particularly intriguing case." Holmes rolled his eyes, but Watson was determined to finish his story, "It was about a woman who was killed by a bite to the hand from an Egyptian asp. She was found in Hyde Park and apparently she was there before she died. Egyptian asps are very expensive and rare, so her death suggests foul play. She was twenty two and unmarried. Also, the snake was found in a black bag a few yards away from her, trampled."

"Clara, what do you make of this case?" Holmes asked.

Watson could tell from the glint in his eye that Holmes had already figured out the case, which particularly irked him. Watson had been naïve enough to think that this might actually occupy Holmes for more than a few minutes.

"Well," Clara started, her face contorted in concentration, "I would say she was killed by someone wealthy, because only someone with money would be able to purchase such a rare and deadly snake. However, the person must not have realized how valuable the snake was, otherwise they wouldn't have left it so close to the scene. It is quite possible that the snake was stolen, possibly by a maid or butler, from someone wealthy."

"If I had to make an assumption, I would say that the snake was stolen from a wealthy man who was having an affair with the dead woman. He probably was also having an affair with one of his maids or workers, someone who knew the house well enough to know where he kept the snake. She must have found out and, in a rage, forged a letter from her employer to the other mistress, asking her to go to Hyde Park. Somehow she must have gotten her to reach into the black bag you mentioned, thus causing the snake to bite her. The maid may have been startled by how quickly the poison killed the other woman, and in a panic trampled the snake," Clara finished.

"But that's only a guess," Clara added sheepishly when she saw the look on Watson's face.

"Correct on all accounts, Miss Barker," Holmes said, grinning, "You pass."

**Author's Note: **Please review and let me know if I should continue!


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thank you to everyone who reviewed before! Haha even though there were only four reviews, I was still happy. I hope you all enjoy this chapter!**

**Disclaimer: The only thing I own is Clara

* * *

  
**

**Chapter II**

"Just what, exactly, do I pass?" Clara asked confusedly.

"Why, my little test of course! Since my dear partner, Watson, will soon be consumed by domesticity and frilly things, I am in need of a new assistant," Holmes answered cheerfully.

Clara opened her mouth to speak, but yet again, Holmes cut her off.

"Before you pretend to protest, I can tell from your demeanor that you will ultimately agree to this. Save your breath," Holmes pointed out.

Clara looked down at her hands in embarrassment. It seemed that, in order to work with Sherlock Holmes, one must put aside their dignity. He could see through everything anyone did; it was simply impossible to lie to him.

"Good," Holmes said, rubbing his hands together, "it seems that we are in agreement. Each day at noon you will return here so I can prepare you for the field. Your initial training will begin immediately. "

Watson, who had been watching the whole scene patiently, decided to speak up, "Holmes, our line of work is no place for a woman," he paused, looking apologetically at Clara, "it's much too dangerous – she'll have no way to defend herself…" he trailed off.

"You saw how Irene faired in our last case," Holmes said, and turning to Clara, continued, "I have perfect faith in you, my dear."

At Watson's mention of "defending," Clara visibly paled. _What on earth have I gotten myself into? _She wondered.

Holmes seemed to notice her change in visage and continued, "However, that is what your preliminary training courses will be in – self defense. You'll be happy to know that I am an exceptional fighter, and I could protect you, if the need arose. Most likely you won't need to fight… it's just a precaution…"

Watson, who at this point seemed to be able to read Clara's mind, responded, "Holmes, I hardly think she trusts you enough to put her life in your hands! You're being ridiculous!"

"Oh, mother hen, when will you learn not to worry so! Clara has just demonstrated that she has the intellectual capacity to fill your shoes," Holmes said. He looked at Clara and said, "You may leave now, if you wish. We can continue our sessions each day at noon. Good day."

Clara nodded and practically ran towards the door. Once she was gone, Watson tiredly put his fingers to his temples and said, "Holmes, if this is some elaborate plan to cause me to break my engagement with Mary, then you are wasting your time."

"Don't be preposterous! Do you honestly think that I wouldn't know you would be able to see through such a plan?" Holmes asked hurriedly.

Watson spent a moment deciphering what Holmes just said and replied, "If this is some kind of reverse psychology experiment, I swear…"

"It's not, I assure you," Holmes replied stoically.

"Well, alright," Watson trailed off, unconvinced, "but I have to meet Mary at two for tea, so I must be going."

"With the parents?" Holmes asked sarcastically.

"No, just the two of us," Watson responded, un-phased by Holmes' mocking attitude.

Holmes' eyes soon had that all-too-familiar shine in them.

"Say, Watson, would you mind if Clara and I were to join you?"

Watson was now thoroughly confused. Never before had Holmes showed any interest in meeting Mary, and now, all of a sudden, he was requesting to see her.

"Well, I mean, I suppose so. Why do you want to come?" Watson asked, narrowing his eyes in suspicion.

"I just think that since the three of us – Clara, you, and myself – shall be spending so much time together in these coming months, it is appropriate that your fiancée meets Clara. I am sure she wouldn't like the idea of you meeting so frequently with some woman that she's never met. You of all people should know, Watson, that trust is key in any successful relationship," Holmes said playfully.

"I suppose you can come. I'll go tell Clara. But, Holmes, for god sakes, clean yourself up first. I have no desire to repulse Mary with your presence," and with that Watson left the room.

Once Watson left the room, Holmes smiled to himself. Yes, everything was going quite according to plan. If he couldn't convince Watson to stay, maybe someone else could. It appeared that the only way to sabotage a man's relationship with a woman is to throw another woman into the mix.

* * *

Watson knocked on Clara's door. "Clara, are you there?"

"Yes, John, you may come in," she yelled from inside. When Watson entered, he noticed that she was painting.

"Sorry for the mess, I just was inspired all of a sudden," Clara said smiling. "Is there something you wanted to tell me?"

"Oh yes," Watson began, clearing his throat, "I was wondering if you would like to join Holmes, my fiancée, and me for a spot of tea this afternoon."

"That sounds lovely!" Clara exclaimed excitedly. "What time?"

"Two. It's about one now – we're going to the Palm Court at the Langham Hotel," Watson answered.

"Alright, I'll see you shortly, then," Clara started. Just as Watson was about to leave, she turned to him and said, "John, thank you so much for inviting me, it really means a lot to me to be included in things…" she said, smiling sincerely.

"Of course, Clara. I look forward to seeing you there," he said, smiling back.

* * *

At 1:30, Clara heard a knock on her door. She opened it to find Sherlock Holmes, who looked unusually pulled together – he even seemed to have attempted to tame his hair.

"Good day my lady, I understand that I am to be your escort for this afternoon," Holmes said jokingly, falling into an elaborate bow and kissing Clara's hand lightly.

Clara laughed at his show, and hooked her arm through his. She followed him out to the cab, where he held the door open for her and helped her in. As he held her hand, he stated, "You've been painting again, I see."

Sure enough, there was a tiny speck of white paint on the side of Clara's hand, which she forgot to wipe off. Clara said smirking, "I can only paint when I'm happy or excited about something."

Holmes beamed at her and stepped into the cab.

* * *

_31__th__ August, 1888_

_Tea yesterday was quite nice. John's fiancée, Mary Morstan, was rather charming. I was surprised at how beautiful she was – I have to admit, her presence made me feel somewhat inadequate. I could sense some friction between she and Holmes, and John seemed nervous about the whole ordeal. Despite this, I had a lovely time and I found all members of the party to be quite agreeable. John was especially kind to me and I'm very glad to say that I think I may finally have a friend in this new city._

_HOWEVER, last night was dreadful. I finally have found out what Holmes' "unusual" habits that John mentioned are. Apparently he finds it necessary to practice the violin in the dead of night. I hardly got a wink of sleep. I contemplated asking him to stop, but I decided to discuss the matter with him once we are more acquainted. _

_-CB_

* * *

Clara had been attending her training sessions with Holmes (and sometimes Watson) regularly. So far, she had learned how to disarm someone quickly and how to shoot a revolver. Actually, it had been Watson who insisted she learn how to shoot. He taught her himself, and Clara was sure that her aunt was not appreciative of it. Holmes assured her that they practiced shooting in his room all the time, but Clara still felt guilty (with good reason). Clara had become relatively close to the two of them, but she still had her reservations about Holmes.

Clara was ashamed to say, but she had begun to develop something of a schoolgirl's crush on Watson. She knew that it was ridiculous and wrong, but she couldn't help herself. He was so kind to her and she was one of the few men who actually accepted that she wasn't some ditsy, blushing, maiden. However, she resolved to not act on her feelings under any circumstances.

Mrs. Hudson was far from pleased that Clara was spending so much time with Holmes, but she saw that her niece was happy and decided to let her be. She hadn't expected Watson and Holmes to take to her, for they rarely associated with people besides one another. However, she was glad that Clara was at least making some contact with other people.

* * *

In early September, something unusual happened. Holmes was in the middle of explaining to Clara the properties of the rhododendron plant, when there was a light knock at his door.

"Come in," Holmes yelled.

A well-dressed man wearing a bowler hat entered.

"Ah, Inspector Lestrade, what can I do for you today?" Holmes asked.

"Hello, Sherlock, hello – " he looked at Clara questioningly.

"Miss Clara Barker," Clara replied.

"Hello Miss Barker. Holmes I have something extremely important that I need to talk to you about, if you don't mind," He said, his eyes darting from Holmes to Clara.

"She can stay." Holmes replied.

"Well, there is a particularly intriguing case developing. I thought you might want to have a look at it. Over at Scotland Yard, we are having a bit of trouble with it. But first, let me just warn you," he paused, looking over at Clara again, "it is quite gruesome."

Holmes opened the folder that Lestrade had just handed him. Inside, there was a grainy photograph of a woman whose body had been horribly mutilated. Her throat was cut with two slashes and her stomach was stabbed in various places.

"This is the body of Mary Ann Nichols. She was found about a week age, on August 31st, in Whitechapel," Lestrade said, pointing to the photograph. "We didn't think it was anything other than some sort of common crime, but that was before we found her – "

Lestrade flipped the pages in the folder to another photograph. The photograph was similar to the first, only this time the woman was much more maimed. Her throat had been cut in the same manner as the first, but her stomach was much more damaged. It was almost entirely opened. At the sight of the photograph, Clara turned away in horror and Holmes winced in disgust.

"This is Annie Chapman. She was discovered today in Spitalfields. As you can see, the women were killed in a similar manner. Both were found with two gashes in their throats. The wounds on their abdomens seem to have been inflicted _after_ their deaths. Also, both women were prostitutes…" Lestrade said.

"How awful…" Clara commented under her breath.

"Well, Inspector, it seems we have a serial killer on our hands!" Holmes exclaimed, clapping Lestrade on the back.

"You'll take the case, then?" Lestrade asked hopefully.

"I'll take the case," Holmes said, a slight smile dancing across his lips.

* * *

**A/N: Please review! :)**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Okey dokey, here's Chapter 3. Sorry if it's kind of long. Oh, and just in case some of you are wondering, Holmes _is _trying to set up Clara and Watson. He thinks that if he can get them together, Watson will break off his engagement with Mary and stay with him. So manipulative...**

* * *

**Chapter III**

_Recap: "I'll take the case," Holmes said, a slight smile dancing across his lips._

"Excellent," Lestrade stated.

"Have you moved the body yet?" Holmes asked.

"No, it's still there. I figured you would want to see it at the scene of the crime before we moved it," Lestrade replied.

"Good. And just where, exactly, is that?" Holmes inquired.

"29 Hanbury Street, Spitalfields. You'll know the house immediately; the scene has attracted quite the crowd," Lestrade answered.

"Well then we must get going. We'll see you at the crime scene, Inspector. Come, Clara. We need to go get Watson, first," Holmes instructed.

Clara bid Lestrade goodbye and followed Holmes to the street in front of their house. Holmes beckoned a cab and instructed the driver to take them to Watson's home.

_Later..._

"A serial killer?" Watson asked.

Holmes, who was looking out the window of the cab, replied, "Yes, I believe so. Both the victims were killed in a similar manner. They were also similar ages and both were prostitutes."

Clara followed Holmes' gaze out the window. It was clear that they were entering the dodgy part of the city. Clara was suddenly extremely thankful that Watson had taught her to shoot a revolver.

"We're 'ere," the cab driver stated in a thick cockney accent.

Holmes paid the fare and exited the coach. Watson exited next, and helped Clara over a filthy puddle that was right outside the coach door. Clara observed the surroundings and was repulsed. She had only seen the well-to-do parts of London, so the scene in front of her was a complete culture shock.

Garbage and excrement lined the streets and the people walking about were dressed in nothing short of rags. The buildings that lined the streets were literally falling apart and the number of dark alleyways was particularly unnerving. Disgusting, toothless men were eying Clara beadily, causing her to clutch Watson's arm tightly.

Watson, who seemed to sense Clara's fear, whispered in her ear, "Don't worry, Holmes and I won't let anyone touch you."

Once Clara had gotten past her initial revulsion, she realized what Inspector Lestrade had been talking about. At one of the houses, an enormous crowd had gathered and police officers were attempting to keep people away.

She, Holmes, and Watson made their way through the crowd. Holmes talked with one of the officers, who seemed to recognize him. After speaking with Holmes for a few moments, he let Watson and Clara through as well.

The scene in front of them was almost too much for Clara to bear. She had to quickly put her handkerchief to her mouth and nose as soon as she caught a whiff of the horrendous stench.

Waving the flies away, Watson knelt down beside the body. After surveying the victim for a few moments, prodding and poking various body parts, Watson stood.

"You do know that the woman's uterus has been removed?" Watson asked with an expression of great disgust.

One of the police officers scribbled something quickly on a notepad.

"I'll take that as a 'no'…" Watson muttered to himself.

"A doctor," Holmes said. His eyes were unfocused.

"Or a surgeon – someone who knew what exactly they were removing. You can tell by the cuts here," Watson pointed to her abdomen with his cane, "that he knew what he was doing. These incisions were made with a surgical knife."

Inspector Lestrade stepped forward from talking with another officer.

"Hello Inspector! I see your men have learned nothing from prior investigations," Holmes joked darkly.

"This entire area has been destroyed. The only useful piece of evidence now is the body itself," Watson said in an aggravated tone.

"What have you found so far?" He asked, ignoring Holmes' and Watson's comments.

"The killer is either a doctor or a surgeon," Holmes replied.

"And he isn't married," Clara added.

"How do you know that?" Lestrade asked skeptically.

"Well, he killed two prostitutes and removed from one the very thing that made her a woman. He clearly harbors a severe hatred for womankind. I doubt that he would be able to bear having a wife," Clara answered.

"Alright, anything else?" Lestrade asked.

"He's going to strike again," Holmes paused, "most likely in the vicinity of the other two murders."

"How can you tell?" Lestrade questioned.

"This murder is more violent than the first. If I had to venture a guess, I would say that he is going to strike again with increased ferocity," Holmes replied.

"Very well. I shall inform the civilians to stay indoors at night," Lestrade stated.

"Were there any witnesses?" Watson asked.

"There was one…" Lestrade began hesitantly, "but I don't know how reliable he is…"

"Anything is better than nothing," Watson replied.

"Alright. I will bring him to you, but when we tried to talk to him earlier he was not cooperative." With that, Lestrade left to go find the witness.

When Lestrade returned, he was with a man who was in great need of a bath. He was about fifty years of age, painfully thin, and had dirt and sweat covering his clothes and face. He seemed very nervous to be around all the policemen, which Holmes clearly found amusing.

"Nothing to worry about, old chap, you're not a suspect," Holmes assured him. The man visibly relaxed.

"I'm Detective Sherlock Holmes, and this is my partner, Dr. John Watson," Holmes said, beckoning to Watson.

The man stiffened.

"I 'eard you talkin' before. I 'eard wot you said 'bout the killer bein' a docter. I ain't talkin' to no blasted docter now," the man said adamantly.

"Don't worry, don't worry. I promise, you have no reason to suspect Mr. Watson of anything," Holmes said in an attempt to placate him. However, it was clear that the man was going to remain unresponsive.

"Do you mind if I try talking to him?" Clara asked Holmes. He made a motion for her to go ahead and she led the man away from Holmes and Watson.

"Hello, sir. I'm Clara Barker. What is your name?" she said in the sweetest voice she could muster.

"Name's 'Arry Abrams," the man replied suspiciously.

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Abrams. Would you mind telling me what you saw? I understand that you don't want to talk about it, but your information may help save the lives of other people. Think of it as a service to your fellow man," Clara replied.

Harry Abrams looked as if he was going to refuse, but he decided to speak up.

"I couldn't see much, on a count of the dark. But wot I saw was this: a shabby-genteel man wit' fine clothes – like your lot over there," he pointed directly at Watson, "only 'is clothes was dirty. 'E was mighty proud, despite 'is filth, though. And 'e was a dark fella as well. I saw 'im at about 'alf past five in the morn. 'E was actin' very cagey."

Clara hurriedly scribbled down everything that the man had just said.

"Thank you kindly, sir. Your cooperation is greatly appreciated," she said, giving him a genuine smile.

Clara then sauntered smugly over to Holmes and tossed him the pad of paper with her notes. Holmes caught the paper, somewhat insulted, and Watson shook his head with quiet laughter.

"And that, gentlemen, is the benefit of having a woman around," Clara stated proudly.

*

Back at Holmes' room, Clara was seated on the couch with Alastair purring on her lap, while Holmes was sitting at his desk, smoking his pipe. Watson was sitting on the floor, looking through a directory of all the doctors in London.

"Well, what do we know," Holmes said, mainly to himself.

"He's a doctor or a surgeon, unmarried, age is around late twenties to late forties, dark hair, unmarried… Anything else?" Holmes asked.

"I have a question," Clara started, "If he is indeed a doctor or surgeon, why would he be badly dressed, like Mr. Abrams said?"

Holmes contemplated this for a moment. "He must have been in disguise, as to avoid suspicion. That means that he targeted the woman and had already planned the attack…" Holmes said.

Watson suddenly slammed his book shut.

"Well, Holmes, you'll be pleased to know that there are 3,000 doctors and surgeons in London, give or take a few. It will be impossible to interview all of them," Watson said exasperatedly.

"Plus," he added, "We haven't all the time in the world. Like you said, he is likely to strike again, and soon."

"That is indeed a problem, dear Watson," Holmes replied distractedly.

"But luckily," he continued, "we don't need to interview all of them."

"And why is that?" Watson asked, frustrated.

"Because, old boy, if you had been paying attention earlier, you would know that there are age restrictions and other criteria that this man must meet. And, there are three of us," Holmes answered.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock, but if you expect me to interview doctors, alone, who exclusively target young women, then you are sorely mistaken. I have no desire to be eviscerated anytime soon, thank you," Clara interjected.

"Yes, Holmes, I don't think that's a good idea either," Watson added quickly.

Watson's hurried response caused Clara to look at him and Holmes to raise his eyebrows.

"I just don't think it's wise…" Watson trailed off. Holmes could have sworn he saw him blush slightly.

_Interesting… he seems to have developed some level of protectiveness over her. Excellent. _Holmes thought.

"Fine. Since you seem so concerned, Clara can accompany you on all your interviews. We will divide them in half once we figure out how many meet the description, which should take about a day. If I had to guess, he probably won't strike again until the fuss over this murder has died down, which should be in approximately one month," Holmes said.

"Don't you think the doctors will be suspicious? The killer is no fool – what will our covers be?" Clara asked.

Holmes stroked his chin thoughtfully.

"You and Watson will be a happily married couple who is expecting their first child. That is why you shall be interviewing doctors. I will pretend to have severe rheumatism..." Holmes responded.

Both Watson and Clara looked scandalized at Holmes' suggestion.

"Holmes, I hardly think that is an appropriate cover!" Watson exclaimed in disbelief.

"What, I can pretend to have rheumatism quite well, I think," Holmes replied.

Watson glared at him.

Holmes rolled his eyes and said, "Well, do you have any better ideas?"

Watson shook his head and covered his face with his hands.

"Fine," he replied, "But Mary is not to hear of this. I don't want her worrying…"

"I'm shocked that you would even think I would do such a thing!" Holmes said in mock outrage.

"I'm serious, Holmes," Watson snapped.

"Alright, alright, I won't say anything. I don't even communicate with her, anyway. But doesn't it worry you that you think she would get angry over such a thing? It is only a cover, after all," Holmes questioned.

"Sherlock," Watson warned.

"Wait just a minute," Clara said angrily, "Don't I get a say in this?"

"No," Holmes replied shortly.

Clara huffed and crossed her arms, but did not press the matter further.

*

Holmes, Watson, and Clara were able to narrow their list of doctors and surgeons down to about 500. That would mean that, over the course of the month, they would have each have to interview about eight per day. It was do-able, but it would be difficult. Since they had no way to tell what the doctors looked like, they could immediately eliminate some of the suspects once they saw them, which would also save time.

"We shall meet back here at the end of each day to discuss our findings," Sherlock instructed Watson and Clara on the first day of their search.

Watson was extremely displeased with the whole situation. He didn't want to pretend to be Clara's husband, and he certainly didn't want to spend the entire next month interviewing doctors and surgeons. He would much rather spend time with his fiancée, but he knew that if he refused to help, Clara would have to conduct the interviews alone, which would place her in an extremely dangerous position.

Watson's and Clara's first interview of the day was with Dr. Henry Fitzwilliam. No luck. Holmes didn't have much luck, either. In fact, Clara and Watson did not come across anything unusual until their third week of interviews.

It was the 27th of September, and Clara and Watson were scheduled to meet with Dr. Arthur Redcliff. When they entered his office, Clara noticed that everything was impeccably clean – almost alarmingly so. Dr. Redcliff was a handsome, clean-cut man in his mid thirties. His black hair was slicked back neatly and he wore a pair of round glasses.

"Good afternoon, Dr. Redcliff," Watson greeted, shaking the man's hand.

"I'm Joseph Cavendish and this is my wife, Rebecca," Watson continued.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Cavendish. What can I do for you today," he asked, showing them a charming smile.

Since Watson and Clara had already done so many interviews, they had become particularly skilled actors.

"My wife," Watson said happily, placing a hand on Clara's knee, "is with child and we are looking for a doctor to perform the delivery. Now, as you can see, she's not very far along, but we are hoping to get things figured out in advance."

That was when Clara became suspicious. At Watson's mention of "with child," a flash of disgust had crossed the doctor's face. It was so brief that Clara thought, at first, she might have imagined it.

To make sure she had seen something, Clara gripped Watson's hand tightly and looked at him with a sickeningly loving expression.

"Yes, we are just _so _excited. You can't even imagine the happiness we both felt when we found out!" She exclaimed dramatically.

Watson had a questioning look in his eye, but Clara nudged him with her foot under the desk, urging him to play along.

"Yes, yes, simply _elated_," Watson continued, "Do you have any children of your own, doctor?"

"No, I'm afraid I'm not married, Mr. Cavendish," Redcliff replied.

"What a shame. But do you think you will be able to help us?" Watson asked.

Dr. Redcliff gave them a smile that seemed somewhat forced and said, "Well, I would, but – er – that particular field is not my expertise. However, if you would like, I could direct you to one of my colleagues…"

"Oh," Clara said, her smile dropping, "I guess that would be alright. What do you think, dear?" She asked, turning to Watson.

"That's fine. Thank you so much for your time, I hope we weren't an inconvenience," Watson said, taking the slip of paper with the other doctor's name on it.

Once they had left the doctor's building, Watson turned to Clara and said, "I think we have our first suspect, my dear Rebecca."

Holmes was very interested in Clara and Watson's tale. He agreed that their encounter was suspicious, but he did not want to stop interviewing others just yet. However, he did think that they should keep a close watch on Dr. Redcliff.

Apparently he, too, had made an interesting discovery in the form of an Irish surgeon named Dr. Andrew McCullen, who was, according to Holmes, very unusual. When Holmes entered his office, the surgeon was carefully polishing his surgical knives and seemed a bit startled when he first saw Holmes, even though he was expecting him. Holmes also noticed that he had slept at his office that night, due to his wrinkled clothes and bags under his eyes. Nothing he actually said seemed to invoke suspicion, but his demeanor was most unsettling.

*

On the 29th of September, Clara awoke to a loud banging on her door.

"What is it?!" she called.

She heard Watson's voice reply, "Come into Holmes' room immediately."

Clara dressed as quickly as she could and ran into Holmes' room.

"What's wrong?" She asked when she saw the solemn look on both Holmes' and Watson's faces.

Watson snapped his cane to a piece of paper on the coffee table in front of him and Holmes.

"He's calling himself 'Jack the Ripper,'" was Watson's brief reply.

Clara rushed to read the parcel, clutching her dressing gown to her body.

The paper read:

"_Dear Boss,  
_

_I keep on hearing the police have caught me but they wont fix me just yet. I have laughed when they look so clever and talk about being on the __right__ track. That joke about Leather Apron gave me real fits. I am down on whores and I shant quit ripping them till I do get buckled. Grand work the last job was. I gave the lady no time to squeal. How can they catch me now. I love my work and want to start again. You will soon hear of me with my funny little games. I saved some of the proper __red__ stuff in a ginger beer bottle over the last job to write with but it went thick like glue and I cant use it. Red ink is fit enough I hope __ha. ha.__ The next job I do I shall clip the ladys ears off and send to the police officers just for jolly wouldn't you. Keep this letter back till I do a bit more work, then give it out straight. My knife's so nice and sharp I want to get to work right away if I get a chance. Good Luck._

_Yours truly  
Jack the Ripper_

_Dont mind me giving the trade name_

_PS Wasnt good enough to post this before I got all the red ink off my hands curse it No luck yet. They say I'm a doctor now. __ha ha__"__ **(1)**_

"My god," Clara began, "Where did you get this?"

"Copied it down from the original at Scotland Yard. They phoned me this morning and I left immediately. They just received it today," Watson replied.

"What do you make of it? Couldn't it just be a hoax?" Clara asked, looking at Holmes.

Holmes shook his head. "I honestly think it's real. The language he uses, the rationale... He calls the murders 'games.' I believe that the true killer genuinely thinks this is a game," he answered. "He's just toying with us now..." Sherlock began.

"Damn it, Holmes! We have to do something, and fast!" Watson said, slamming his hand on the table. Clara flinched at the sudden noise.

"He's right. Otherwise another girl will die soon," she added.

"Just let me think…" he muttered.

"Alright, this is what we'll do. Since we only have two main suspects, at the moment, we will focus all of our attention to them. I'll follow McCullen and you two follow Redcliff. I will tell Lestrade to make sure to have officers patrol the Whitechapel and Spitalfields areas regularly, especially at night," Holmes stated.

"From now on," he continued, "we will follow the two suspects wherever they go. Do not let anything stop you from tracking them, do you hear me?"

Having said that, Holmes reached for his coat and began to leave. However, Watson stopped him and said, "Don't forget this," handing him his revolver. Holmes took the revolver, nodded appreciatively at Watson, and was off. Clara and Watson soon followed suit.

* * *

**(1): This is the actual letter, I got it from wikipedia (haha, sorry if that's not legit enough)**

**A/N: I know I'm updating this pretty rapidly, I just can't stop writing. Sorry if it's annoying... Please review!**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Chapter 4! Things are starting to pick up a little bit in this chapter. We see a little less of Holmes in the beginning of this one than in previous chapters, but don't worry! He reappears towards the end. Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: The only thing I own is Clara.  
**

* * *

**Chapter IV**

Clara and Watson had set out on their mission at about noon. However, before they arrived at Dr. Redcliff's building, Watson insisted that they stop to inform Mary of what was going on.

"But you heard what Sherlock said…" Clara said tentatively. Clara, though she may not have liked Holmes that much, clearly held his input in high esteem.

"Holmes doesn't know what he's talking about," Watson said shortly. However, seeing her shocked expression, he quickly added, "Fine, maybe that isn't true. But I just need to let her know why she won't be seeing me at all for the next few days. It won't take long."

"Well, I guess… I mean Sherlock _did _say that it was most important to watch him at night…" Clara began.

"Exactly. Now here we are," Watson said, climbing the front steps of Mary's building.

Clara was surprised at how close Mary lived; her home was only about ten minutes walking distance from hers and Sherlock's. As soon as Watson was about to knock on the door, Mary opened it, startled.

"Oh, John! You gave me a fright! What are you doing here? I was just on my way out," Mary explained. She then peered around Watson, and said, "Oh, hello, Clara. I hope you are quite well. What's going on?"

"Well, Clara and I are involved in a case, which requires us to observe our suspect at all times. I just came here to update you on the situation," Watson replied.

"I see," Mary started. "John, do you mind if I talk to you in private for a moment?" She asked, looking at Clara, who was standing awkwardly in the background.

"Of course," Watson answered. "I'll just be a moment, Clara."

Watson stepped inside the foyer of the house and Mary shut the door behind him.

"I'm not comfortable with this," Mary stated simply.

"What? Why?" Watson asked in disbelief. "When we first became engaged, I explained to you what my profession entails…"

"It's not that. I assume your constant stake-out includes nights, am I correct?" Not bothering to wait for a response, Mary continued, "I don't feel comfortable with you spending all day _and _night with that girl. I'm sure she's perfectly nice, but it's wrong for you to spend so much time with her and none with your own fiancée!"

Watson looked somewhat irritated. "I don't know what you want me to do, Mary. If you think there is something going on between us, then you are horribly wrong. But, I can't let Clara walk the streets of Whitechapel alone at night. The very idea is preposterous. We are tracking a murderer, for god sakes!"

To Watson, there was no way around the situation. Mary did not have a solution, either. She just stood, glaring at him, with her arms crossed over her chest. She looked as if she was daring him to choose Clara over her.

Watson looked at her, and, without another word, opened the door and left. When he closed the door behind him, Clara was walking towards the house from across the street.

"Let's go," he instructed when she reached him.

*

Watson and Clara were sitting on the fire escape below Dr. Redcliff's window.

"This is going to be dreadfully boring," she complained.

"Yes, it is. We have to wait here until five, which is when he leaves. That's four hours from now," Watson stated.

Clara groaned. "Are you hungry?" She asked.

"A little. Why?" Watson questioned.

"I bought some sandwiches while you were talking to Mary," she said, digging through the bag she had taken. "Which would you prefer, ham and cheese or cucumber?"

"I'll take the ham and cheese," Watson replied.

They ate in a comfortable silence. Every so often, they would peek over the window sill and look into the doctor's office. From the looks of things, he was not a terribly interesting man. All he did was sit at his desk and write, and occasionally attend to a patient.

When they had finished eating, Clara asked, "I hope it's not too bold of me to ask, but did you have a tiff with Mary?"

"Why do you ask?" Watson answered carefully.

"Well, when you were leaving the house you didn't look very happy," Clara replied.

"We did have a little quarrel, but don't worry, it was nothing serious," Watson said.

"Look!" Clara exclaimed suddenly, pointing to the window.

Inside, a man dressed in a black cloak and top hat was talking to Dr. Redcliff. He was standing away from the window, so it was difficult to make out his face. From what Clara could tell, the man had black hair and green eyes – similar to those of the doctor's.

Remembering what Holmes had once told her, Clara said, "I think that's his brother."

"How can you tell?" Watson asked, fully focused on the man.

"Sherlock said that eye color is often shared by the males of a family. His eyes appear to be the same color as the doctor's and he is not old enough to be his father. Therefore, he could be his brother," Clara answered.

"Oh. Well then that's nothing unusual, is it? I mean he's just stopping by for a chat" Watson reasoned.

"No… I suppose you're right…" Clara responded, somewhat unconvinced.

That evening, they followed Dr. Redcliff to his home on Devonshire Street. He lived in a decent building in the good part of town. He never left his home that night.

_**Holmes…**_

Sherlock Holmes was losing patience. McCullen had not done anything particularly suspicious in two days. He was beginning to lose faith that McCullen should, indeed, be considered a suspect. On the second night of observations, Holmes decided to deviate from his initial plans. He went to Whitechapel.

He arrived at about ten at night. His new strategy was to follow suspicious sounds or people. He stood at the corner of New Road and Commercial Road, and waited.

_**Watson and Clara…**_

The next day, Clara and Watson were exhausted. They had taken turns sleeping and keeping watch, but neither got much sleep – the street bench they had been sitting on was not particularly comfortable. Despite their lethargy, the pair followed Redcliff to his office that morning.

Their observations were very similar to those of the previous day. Clara kept herself occupied by sketching a sleeping Watson, and, when Clara was asleep, Watson amused himself by drawing word bubbles on Clara's drawings. At five, Clara and Watson followed Redcliff home, once again.

At about midnight, Watson saw movement in Redcliff's room. He lightly nudged Clara, who had been sleeping with her head against his shoulder.

"Clara, wake up! He's doing something." he said in an urgent whisper.

She yawned tiredly and followed Watson's gaze to the third floor window, where a poorly illuminated figure could be seen pacing back and forth. Suddenly, the light was extinguished.

"He's coming downstairs!" Clara hissed.

Watson quickly looked around for someplace to hide. He turned around and saw an alleyway where they could remain unseen.

"Follow me," he whispered, grabbing Clara's wrist.

Once they were safely hidden in the shadows, the front door of the apartment building opened, revealing Redcliff, who was dressed in a black travelling cloak and a black bowler hat. He waited at the by the street for a few moments, when suddenly a black coach appeared. He stepped inside, and the coach left.

"How are we going to follow him?!" Clara whispered in despair.

"I don't know! God, where is Holmes when you need him?" Watson cried angrily.

After a moment, Clara said, "Alright, I have an idea. We can find the nearest police officer and take his horse."

"Why would he give us his horse?" Watson asked.

"Can't you just explain who you are?" Clara asked in response.

"No, it doesn't work like that. Only Lestrade's men know who I am, and his men are all in Whitechapel," Watson replied.

"Fine – I'll distract him and you steal it, then," Clara answered.

Watson looked hesitant, but Clara added, "What else can we do?"

_*****_

Once they had spotted an officer, Clara pretended to faint in front of the officer, while Watson was hiding in an alleyway behind him.

As expected, the officer rushed over to help Clara, who was explaining something about losing her son. In a flash, Watson had mounted the horse and began galloping towards her.

"Oi! You there! Stop!" the officer yelled at Watson.

He ignored him and clumsily hauled Clara onto the back of the horse. She griped Watson's coat tightly, and turned around to wave cheerfully at the flabbergasted officer.

Once the officer was out of sight, Clara asked, "Where are we going? We've lost sight of them!"

"We're heading towards Whitechapel. It will be easy to find the coach – almost no one is on the streets at this time of night," Watson answered.

A few minutes into their journey, Clara asked, in a somewhat annoyed voice, "Do you know how to ride a horse?"

The ride was rather rough and Watson seemed to be confused as to how to direct the animal.

"Well, no," he began sheepishly, "I've lived in the city my whole life… there was no need…"

It was a long and painful ride to Whitechapel. At about quarter to one, Watson and Clara followed the sound of hooves and wheels to Commercial Road, where they spotted Redcliff's coach. They quickly dismounted the horse and hid in the shadows. They watched as Redcliff exited the coach and walked into a house on the right side of the street, the side that they were on. Once he was inside, they quietly moved towards the house. Out of the corner of her eye, Clara saw a flash across the street.

"John, did you see that?" She asked, tugging at Watson's sleeve.

He quickly glanced across the street and shook his head, confirming that he hadn't seen anything.

Clara dug her revolver out of her bag and handed the bag to Watson. "Here," she said, "take this. I'm going to go see what that was. Keep an eye on Redcliff."

Clara crossed the street and saw the coat tails of a man round the corner of Commercial Road and Berner Street. She picked up her pace and heard a strange muffled strangling sound once she rounded the corner. She followed the noise to Dutfield's Yard. Just as she was about to enter through the wooden gate, a hand grabbed her shoulder.

Clara tried to scream, but a hand covered her mouth causing the sound to come out as a short yelp. Very close to her ear, a man shushed her. When she turned to look at her assailant, she found none other than Sherlock Holmes himself.

"Holmes?!? What the hell are you doing here?" Clara hissed.

Before he could answer, a shuffling noise came from the pitch black area in front of them.

"Stop!" Holmes yelled, pointing his revolver into the darkness.

Watson, who must have heard Clara's yelp, came running over to them.

"Holmes?" He asked in disbelief, before both Holmes and Clara urged him to be quiet.

Clara took her bag from Watson and dug out a matchbox. Holmes ripped it from her hands and quickly lit a match. He began to walk forward into the inky shadows, Watson and Clara close behind.

In front of them, dimly illuminated by the match, was the body of a woman. Clara ran over and knelt beside her before Holmes or Watson could stop her.

"She's still breathing!" Clara called to them happily. However, as soon as she stood up to face Watson and Holmes, she was grabbed from behind. Before she could comprehend what was happening, a warm knife was pressed to her throat.

"Don't come any closer," a deep voice rasped from behind her. Clara whimpered in fear. She could feel the other woman's blood run off the knife onto her own neck.

"Let her go!" Holmes yelled.

"Oh, don't worry," the man started, "I usually only kill the dirty ones. But, if you try to follow me, Mr. Holmes, I might not be able to control myself around her, next time.

"There's not going to be a next time," Watson snapped furiously, raising his revolver.

"Ah, ah, ah," the man said evilly, tightening his grip on Clara, "Holmes, you really must learn to control your pets."

Clara looked at the match in Sherlock's hand. She made eye contact with him as he looked from his hand back to her. The match was about to go out. Quickly, Clara turned around to see her attacker just as the light extinguished. All she managed to see was a pair of green eyes.

Once she was free, Clara clutched her throat tightly, gasping for air. By this time, lights from the surrounding buildings were beginning to light the area – people must have heard the commotion.

Watson ran to the woman and felt her wrist. She had a pulse, but she was quickly losing blood from the gash in her throat. He could tell that she wasn't going to make it; the Ripper had severed her jugular. It was only a matter of time before she would bleed to death. He hung his head in defeat. All they could do now was comfort her while she died. Clara began to weep at the sight of the poor woman. If only they had been there a few moments earlier…

"He didn't finish," Holmes began, "We must have interrupted him…"

Holmes, Watson, and Clara stood in silence for a few moments before police officers began arriving at the scene. Clara, who had the woman's blood running down the entire front of her cloak, gave a description of the attacker to one of the officers, while Watson and Holmes conversed with Lestrade. About forty-five minutes later, a police officer ran towards Lestrade and handed him a slip of paper.

"Oh my God," Lestrade managed to choke out. "Holmes. Watson. Come with me immediately," he said.

As Lestrade, Holmes, and Watson entered Lestrade's coach, Watson grabbed Clara's arm and pulled her in at the last minute.

"I'm sorry, sir, but we can't just leave her there," Watson explained when he saw the annoyed look on Lestrade's face. He clearly did not take Clara seriously.

"What's the meaning of this, Lestrade?" Holmes asked.

"There's been another attack," he replied.

* * *

**A/N: So, I hope everyone liked this. I know that there were a lot of suspects in the Jack the Ripper murders, so I thought I might as well just make up my own. I'm trying to mix fiction with history so it's kind of hard to know where to draw the line. **

**It seems that the gang can now cross both Redcliff and McCullen (?) off their list of suspects, so where does that leave them? Even if Redcliff wasn't the killer, what was he doing in Whitechapel so late at night? Food for thought. **

**Please review and let me know what you think! :)**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Thank you to everyone who reviewed! So here's Chapter 5! I tried to make this one a better combination of seriousness and fun, but I don't know how well it worked. It is kind of seeming like the story is going to end soon, I realized, but don't worry, it's not. I have big plans for this one. Anyway, enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: Only thing I own is Clara.  
**

* * *

**Chapter V**

"Another one?!" Watson asked.

"Yes," Lestrade continued, "She was found in Mitre Square."

"Mitre Square? He must have taken a coach," Holmes said.

The scene was a bloody mess when they arrived. The woman's throat had been cut and her stomach slashed, like the others, only this time more violently.

"Update?" Lestrade asked the presiding officer.

"Catherine Eddowes, sir. Similar profile to the others – prostitute, mid-forties, etc.," he replied.

Watson began to examine the body by candlelight.

"She was killed in much the same way as Ms. Chapman," he spat in disgust, "Her left kidney has been extracted completely and part of her womb was taken… Simply appalling."

Something on the ground beside the body shimmered, catching Holmes' eye. He discretely pocketed the item and resolved to better examine it back at his home.

"Well, I think we've seen enough for one night," Holmes told Lestrade. "I'll be of more use to you back at my office," he continued, "Come along, Watson, Clara. I'll be in touch, Inspector."

_**Back at 221b Baker Street…**_

"I think I know who it is," Clara said. She was still covered in blood and her eyes were unfocused as she stared at the wall. "Those eyes…" she trailed off.

Watson nodded, his gaze, too, was unfocused, "Redcliff's brother."

Holmes looked at her pityingly and said, "Clara, dear, why don't you go clean yourself up..."

She nodded stoically and left the room, without looking at either of the men.

"You're sure it's Redcliff's brother?" Holmes asked Watson once she was gone.

"I believe so. Clara said they had the same eyes – something about you telling her that made them related," Watson answered.

"Look what I found," Holmes said to Watson abruptly. He took a tiny silver link out of his pocket. It appeared to be the link from the chain of some sort of pocket watch.

"Does that really help?" Watson asked, staring at the silver speck.

"Of course it does…" Holmes was about to finish his sentence, when he suddenly was distracted.

"Watson, old boy, something just occurred to me!" he exclaimed, his eyes twinkling. "We never finished interviewing our list of suspects! You only got to Arthur Redcliff – we were going alphabetically. What if…" he continued, flipping through the pages of the directory.

"Aha! Just as I suspected. Look here, Watson," he said, pointing to the name below Arthur Redcliff.

"Oliver Redcliff," Watson said softly. "Well I'll be…"

Clara returned to the room, yawning. Seeing the triumphant look on Holmes' face, she asked, "What have I missed?"

"Oliver Redcliff," Holmes replied shortly.

Clara's mouth formed an 'o' of understanding as she looked from Holmes to the directory.

"So it _was _his brother," she said proudly.

"Wait a minute, Holmes," Watson said, "He knows who we are – we can't just go in there and question him."

"You are correct, Watson. But, luckily, that's what I have disguises for. However, I'm going to have to do this one alone. It's too risky for all three of us to go – it will be much too suspicious," Holmes countered.

"First," Clara said, "I think we should all get some rest."

"I agree," Watson concurred, yawning.

"Very well," Holmes said, looking at his clock, "it's quarter to three now. I suppose we can rest for a few hours."

Clara walked towards the door and reached for the handle, but her hand faltered. "Do you mind if I stay here? I know it's not really appropriate, I am a woman, after all… but it's just… after tonight… I would feel a lot safer if I wasn't alone, "she said quietly, looking up at them with glassy blue eyes.

Watson hesitated, but Holmes, who was never one for obeying society's conventions, said, "Of course."

Smiling at them thankfully, she laid down on the sofa while Holmes threw himself on his bed. Watson, not knowing quite where to go, sat in the chair across from Clara. As he drifted to sleep, Watson looked at Clara's serene face and smiled to himself. However, it quickly turned to a scowl as soon as he realized what was going on.

_No, _he thought, _this will not do. I'm marrying Mary. I'm marrying Mary. I'm…_ soon, he was asleep.

*

That morning, Lestrade banged heavily on the door. A disgruntled Holmes answered.

Lestrade thrust a piece of paper in his face and said, "This arrived this morning."

Holmes quickly rubbed the sleep from his eyes and read the paper. It said:

_I was not codding dear old Boss when I gave you the tip, you'll hear about Saucy Jacky's work tomorrow double event this time number one squealed a bit couldn't finish straight off. Had not got time to get ears off for police thanks for keeping last letter back till I got to work again._

_Jack the Ripper __**(2)**_

"This is very interesting, Lestrade, but I already know who the killer is," Holmes said after reading the letter.

"Confound it, Holmes, why didn't you tell me earlier?!?" Lestrade yelled, waking up Clara and Watson.

"You didn't give me a chance…" Holmes answered calmly, rubbing one of his now-ringing ears.

"Well, who is it?" Lestrade asked anxiously.

"Oliver Redcliff," Holmes said.

"What evidence do you have?" Lestrade interrogated.

"Well… at the moment…" Holmes began.

Lestrade scoffed. "None. Of course you don't have any evidence – I shouldn't have expected anything less." He continued, "Get me evidence. I want this case closed as quickly as possible. The media is having a field day."

With a polite nod of compliance, Holmes slammed the door in Lestrade's face.

"Another letter?" Clara asked curiously.

"Another letter. It doesn't matter, though. Doesn't tell us anything we don't already know," Holmes answered.

After a few minutes of silence, Holmes announced, "I'm going to go see our old chap, Oliver."

"How are you going to disguise yourself?" Clara asked.

"I'll be Artemis Davenport, an elderly and arthritic professor. I'll go see him for a prescription of my joint pains," Holmes replied, smirking.

Clara and Watson watched as Holmes prepared himself, paying attention of to every detail of his appearance. He carefully combed white paint through his hair and fastened a fake beard onto his face. He put on a pair of round spectacles and took out some sort of bizarre body suit.

"What on earth is that?" Clara asked.

"You'll see." Holmes disappeared into another room. When he came back, it was apparent what the suit was for; it made him look quite heavy. The body suit, combined with the beard and cane Holmes was using, completely transformed him.

"Bravo," Watson said, smiling sarcastically, "you look stunning."

"Why thank you, my dear," Holmes said, giving Watson a grin that showed a pair of fake teeth he had put in. Watson couldn't help but let out a bark of laughter. Clara, too, was smiling at Holmes' ridiculous costume.

"Well, I'm off!" Holmes exclaimed dramatically. Before he could leave, though, Watson called out to him.

He had suddenly turned serious. "Do be careful, Holmes," he said.

Sherlock nodded to him in silent understanding, and left, leaving Clara and Watson alone in his room.

Watson cleared his throat and Clara shifted her feet awkwardly.

"So," she began awkwardly.

"So," Watson agreed.

"Why do you think Arthur Redcliff was in Whitechapel that night?" Clara asked, abruptly.

"That's a good question," Watson said, "Maybe he was helping him?"

Clara nodded, "They must have planned it. That's why Arthur was waiting for coach. What was he doing in that building?"

"From what I saw before I met up with you and Holmes, he was renting a room," Watson said.

"Perhaps he was covering for his brother – getting a room ready so that he wouldn't have to go back to wherever he lives. I'm sure he doesn't live in Whitechapel. And he must have been covered in blood – his presence would have invoked a lot of suspicion. The house was close enough to the scene that he wouldn't have to walk far to get to it, but it wasn't so close that he would be a suspect," Clara reasoned.

"You're right. We'll tell Holmes about it when he gets back," Watson said.

*

It was half past three, and Holmes still hadn't returned. Clara was sitting on the sofa, wringing her hands nervously.

"You're worried about him," Watson noted, making eye contact with her.

"Aren't you?"

Watson nodded sadly. "He is my best friend. I know it seems like we fight quite often, but when it comes down to it, I don't know what I would do if – "

Watson was cut off by the door opening. He quickly cleared his throat in embarrassment while Holmes entered, looking the same as he had before.

"How did it go?" Clara asked as soon as he walked in.

"He wasn't there," Holmes replied irritably. "I waited there two bloody hours and no one ever came. I did, however, manage to get into his office," Holmes said, showing Clara and Watson a sliver pocket watch, "and I found this in his rubbish bin. It matches the link I found near Ms. Eddowes' body."

"Is that enough to convict him?" Clara asked hopefully.

"It's enough to at least get him in police custody. But we have to find him first," Holmes explained. "He must know he's a suspect. He'll probably lay low for a while. All we can do now is wait."

"His brother is an accomplice," Watson said, "I saw him renting a room in Whitechapel the night of the attacks."

Holmes nodded. "He must have been planning to go directly there after the murder, before we showed up."

"I picked this up on my way here," Holmes added, showing the pair a newspaper. "The first woman we found last night was Elizabeth Stride."

Clara winced at the mention of the previous night. She had never been so scared in her entire life. Watson saw her change of expression and rubbed her back gently. "Don't worry," he said, "we won't let anything like that happen to you ever again. You're safe with us." She looked back at him with an appreciative expression.

Holmes' eyes darted between the two in semi-shock. In all the excitement, he had almost forgotten about his plan to sabotage Watson's engagement! Holmes smiled slightly to himself, amused by his own genius.

*

About a week had passed without any new developments in the Ripper case. To some, it seemed that he had disappeared. However, the great Sherlock Holmes knew better. He would periodically return to Dr. Oliver Redcliff's office, but there was never any trace of him. He stole the patient files from his office and even began questioning patients. No one had seen or heard from him. The case seemed to have reached a dead end, and things were beginning to return to normal.

Clara had begun painting again, and her landscape of the London skyline was coming along quite beautifully. Holmes had begun practicing his violin again (much to everyone's dismay), and Watson (who had since reconciled with his fiancée) had begun spending all his time with Mary again.

Over the course of the lull in activity, Clara and Holmes had become much closer. Their relationship was similar to that of a brother and sister, and they were unified by their mutual desire to get Watson away from Mary. However, while Holmes blatantly displayed his dislike for Mary, Clara was much more subtle. In fact, besides Sherlock, no one even noticed her discomfort around her.

There were small indications. For instance, the four were at dinner one night, when Mary began talking about her and Watson's wedding plans.

"The flower arrangements will be simply to die for," Mary said dramatically. "White lilies everywhere," she continued, clutching Watson's arm possessively. Clara eyed Mary's hand warily, and for a split second, Holmes saw a look of pure jealousy flash across her face. But it was gone as quickly as it came.

"You must be thrilled," Clara noted with dry, veiled sarcasm. Holmes, who was the only one to catch her tone, began choking on his wine to disguise his laughter. Insulting the oblivious Mary had quickly become Clara and Holmes' favorite game.

Mary seemed to be suspicious of Clara as well. She would never pass up the opportunity to talk about the wedding, or how John liked his eggs, or what John thought about this and that. To Holmes, the tension between the two women was quickly becoming quite obvious. Watson, however, seemed to be totally unaware of any friction at all.

Mary also appeared to have taken it upon herself to play matchmaker for Holmes and Clara, which Holmes found particularly amusing. She would attempt to set up thinly disguised situations where Holmes and Clara would seem like a couple. For example, dinner dates with her and Watson, opera shows together, etc. _Oh, if only she knew,_ Holmes would sometimes think, _her little schemes don't stand a chance against my diabolical master plan. Poor thing won't know what hit her._

Watson seemed to be sensitive to the matchmaking, however. _Very _sensitive, Holmes noticed, a little _too_ sensitive for a man who was to be married in less than four months.

Holmes made the best of his position, though, thoroughly enjoying his ability to torture both Mary _and _Watson at the same time.

Unfortunately, this time of normalcy was short-lived. On the 15th of October, Sherlock Holmes received a call from Scotland Yard.

"Holmes," Lestrade said over the telephone, "We've received another letter from the Ripper. It was sent to us from George Lusk. He received it a few days ago but initially thought it was a joke. Please come to my office as soon as you can."

"I'll be over immediately," Holmes replied before slamming the receiver.

"Who was that?" Clara, who had been sketching Gladstone, asked.

"Lestrade. Come on, we have to go," he answered shortly.

"What about Watson?" she asked.

"We'll pick him up on the way. Come on!" Holmes said impatiently.

*

Once the three had finally made it to Lestrade's office (Mary required a _lot_ of persuading before she allowed Watson to leave), they were shown the letter. It was the first time any of them had seen an original copy. It read:

_From hell_

_Mr Lusk,  
Sir  
I send you half the Kidne I took from one women prasarved it for you tother piece I fried and ate it was very nise. I may send you the bloody knif that took it out if you only wate a whil longer_

_signed  
Catch me when you can Mishter Lusk __**(3)**_

After reading the note, Clara turned to Holmes and said, "This can't possibly be from the same person. The language is all wrong. Look at the spelling! It's atrocious. And, it's not signed. The other two were signed."

"Aye, Miss Barker, that's what we thought, too, at first," Lestrade said, answering for Holmes. "But that was before we found this," he continued, bringing out a glass jar with some sort of remains in it.

"Please tell me that's not what I think it is…" Watson began.

"Truth is, doctor, we don't know what it is… besides the obvious… we were hoping you could tell us," Lestrade replied.

"Get me a pair of tweezers, and a clear desk," Watson instructed.

When the area was set up, Watson opened the top of the jar. A strange chemical smell filled the air.

"Ethanol," Holmes stated.

Watson nodded in agreement. "That just confirms our theory about Redcliff…" he said.

After prodding and dissecting the organ, Watson said, "This is half a human kidney. Most likely from a woman. Judging by its condition, I would say she was in her mid forties and had a penchant for liquor..."

"Eddowes," Clara said quietly.

"Most likely," Watson agreed.

"Then, this whole thing begs the question, why is the writing so different?" she asked.

"He knows we're onto him, but he can't help himself from taunting us. He takes pride in his 'work' and can't restrain himself from sending these letters. The language is a poor attempt at disguising his identity. Redcliff knows we know it's him, but he is trying to make it seem as if the murders are the doings of someone less educated," Holmes answered.

"I almost forgot," Holmes said suddenly, facing Lestrade, "I found this at the scene of the crime," he continued, showing him the silver chain link, "and this," he held up the pocket watch, "in Redcliff's garbage. You can see from the chink in the chain here that he tried to repair the watch without this link."

"Superb," Lestrade said, taking the two items from Holmes, "I'll put a warrant out for Dr. Redcliff's arrest immediately."

"Inspector," Holmes began seriously, "let me just warn you, this is not going to stop until we catch him. He hasn't struck in a while. When he does act, I assure you, it will be with the utmost intensity – worse than anything we have seen from him before. Time is of the essence."

"I understand," Lestrade replied curtly.

* * *

_**(2) **_**& _(3): both are the actual letters, taken from wikipedia._**  
**A/N: I know a link in a chain seems kind of like too little evidence to arrest someone on, but I figure back then the police weren't so worried about people's rights and were more liberal with their arrests.**  
**So we have the beginnings of a little something between Watson and Clara... Hmmm.**** One of my main concerns is the speed of their relationship. What do you think? Too fast? Too slow? Also, am I keeping the people in character? That's another big thing for me- I hate in when people make the canon characters act all weird around an OC. I'm really trying to not make Clara the entire focus of the story, which also often happens with an OC. Anyway, I love feedback, so PLEASE review. :)  
**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Okay so I've decided to make this a two part story. I still have a lot of things I want to accomplish with the characters, and I don't think I can do that over the span of such a short case. SO I'm going to make a new one in addition to the Ripper one. Because of this, I think I'm going to change the title. (I never really liked the title, I kind of just randomly named it so I could publish it). So yeah. That's where I'm at. Thank you sooo much to everyone who reviewed! Reviews make my life. Alright so here's Chapter 6!**

* * *

**Chapter VI**

Over three weeks had passed since Lestrade received the last letter from the Ripper. Things, once again, had begun to return to normal. Watson was engulfed in wedding planning and things between he and Clara were becoming a tad strained.

Clara had begun to become more vocal about her opinion of Mary, which caused somewhat of a rift between her and Watson. Holmes, who couldn't quite decide whether this was good or bad (it meant Clara was recognizing her feelings for Watson, but it also was causing their relationship to suffer), tried to mediate their fights.

Now, Clara had only known Holmes and Watson for a few months, and to some (cough Mrs. Hudson), it seemed that she was spending an indecent amount of time with the two. But the fact that they had already been through so much together caused them to "bond," (using the term loosely) rapidly.

One day, while Holmes and Clara were taking a walk in Regent's Park, Holmes asked, "How exactly do you feel about Watson?"

Clara looked at him with a puzzled expression. "Well, I mean, I think of him as a good friend, just like you do. I'm obviously not as close to him as you are, but I would still consider him a friend."

Holmes shook his head mischievously. "You can't lie to me, Clara. You know that. Tell me the truth. I won't tell him what you say, you have my word."

She looked at him pleadingly, "I don't know… I've only known him for a few months."

"You've only know me for a few months and I'm sure you've developed quite a stable opinion of me," Holmes countered.

"I honestly don't know! One minute he acts normal around me and the next he seems frustrated." She answered. "I know it's wrong," she continued in a whisper, "but… I just… I can't help it… I have these feelings that I thought would go away… I thought it was just because he was kind to me… but it feels like more, now." Clara wasn't looking at him anymore – she was staring at the ground. Although she was embarrassed, it felt good to confide in someone.

"The sooner he's married, the better," She added resolvedly. She met Holmes' gaze again and continued sadly, "But I know that's not how you feel. It must be so horrible for you. I can't even imagine. It must be like losing a brother."

Holmes cleared his throat. "These things happen. It's not as if he's dying," he said with a cheerless smile. "Plus, the wedding hasn't happened yet…" he added with a sly smirk.

Clara grinned guiltily and lightly smacked his arm. "You shouldn't say such things."

_Good, _Holmes thought, _at least I've gotten her to feel something for him. Now I just have to find out what he thinks of her. It will be more difficult... but that's the fun of it. _

And so, Holmes resolved to find out what Watson thought of Clara at all costs. That night, he made dinner reservations for just him and Watson.

"I must say, Holmes, I'm surprised at you," Watson said.

"And why is that?" Holmes asked dryly.

"It's not like you to act so… well, so normal," Watson replied skeptically.

"What? Can't someone take their friend out to dinner without causing suspicion?" Holmes said in false indignation.

"Maybe someone can, but not Sherlock Holmes," Watson countered.

Holmes shrugged and took a sip of his wine. "How's your _fiancée_?" he asked bitterly.

"I'm not getting into this with you right now. I thought this was supposed to be a pleasant meal," Watson answered.

"No need to get defensive, old boy, I was just asking," Holmes said calmly.

Watson scoffed, but did not respond immediately.

"What's Clara up to tonight?" he asked innocently, taking a sip of his drink and not quite making eye contact with Holmes.

Holmes grinned. _Perfect, _he thought. "Oh I don't know, probably just painting or something. You know how she is," he said smiling. "Oh that's right," he added, letting his smile falter, "you haven't seen her in quite a while, have you?"

"No, I haven't," Watson confirmed. "I hope she is well."

"As well as can be expected," Holmes answered ambiguously.

"What do you mean?" Watson asked, narrowing his eyes.

"She's just a little upset is all. What, with you going off with _Mary _all the time," Holmes answered lazily.

"How is it," Watson paused, rubbing his temples, "that _all _of our conversations lead back to my engagement?"

Holmes simply shrugged, taking a rather ungraceful gulp of wine.

Something seemed to dawn on Watson. "Why would she care if I'm not around? You're there, aren't you?"

"Yes, I'm there," Holmes started, "but it's not me that she wants to see."

"What are you implying?" Watson said somewhat loudly, staring at his friend intently.

"Oh dear, I can see I've already said too much," Holmes said dramatically. "Garçon!" he called to the waiter in distress.

"Wait, Holmes. What are you implying?" he repeated.

Holmes smirked at him, a mischievous glint in his eye.

"Don't be ridiculous," Watson said to Holmes.

No response.

"You think – ? No, that's impossible," Watson reasoned.

Still no response.

"I'm getting married!" Watson exclaimed. "I'm getting married," he repeated weakly.

"I haven't said anything, Johnny boy," Holmes said in a manner that implied complete innocence. _Wonderful! His reaction was not _completely_ adverse or even slightly disgusted. Oh Holmes you sneaky bastard, you,_ he thought, congratulating himself.

Before Watson could speak again, the waiter began bringing out their food. Holmes ate like a starving man to avoid conversation; he wanted Watson to fully mull over his discovery. However, before desert, things had returned to normal and the two men were conversing freely.

After paying the check, Holmes turned to his companion and said, "Watson, my dear, what do you say to drinks back at the flat. Just for old time's sake."

Watson hesitated, but then replied, "I guess there wouldn't be any harm in stopping by for a minute…"

When Holmes unlocked his door, the first thing he saw was Clara sitting on his sofa, waiting for him. She stood upon hearing the door open.

"How the blazes did you get –" Holmes began, but Clara cut him off.

"Where have you been? I've been waiting here for you for all night! Do you have any idea what time it is?"

Watson snickered and whispered to Holmes, "So _this _is what happens when I'm gone?"

Holmes ignored Watson and snapped, "It's twelve, _mother_. Why are you in here?"

"One of Lestrade's men dropped by just after you left. He came to tell you that the police have gotten wind of Redcliff's return to London. After asking around, the police found out that he had gone to the country for a while. One of the officers posted outside his building saw activity, but when they went to arrest him he was gone. However, there was kettle of water on the stove which meant that he had left in a hurry. He must have seen them outside his window," Clara said hurriedly.

"Well, then," Holmes began distractedly, "we must get to Whitechapel immediately."

"Are you mad?" Watson asked. "He's not going to strike again so soon. He knows we're following him. It will be much too obvious."

"That's where you're wrong," Holmes replied. "I'm confident he will return. He can't help himself. This is the longest he's gone between attacks."

"Wait," Clara interrupted. "Before we go running over to Whitechapel like chickens with our heads cut off, why don't you telephone Lestrade. Maybe there have been some new developments."

"Fine," Holmes replied begrudgingly.

"Hello? Lestrade? It's Holmes. Clara just told me your message. You know, Clara? Miss Barker."

"Mhm."

"Alright."

"Thank you."

"Good night."

"Well?" Watson questioned.

"There has been a sighting of a man, unusually well-dressed," Holmes paused, "… in Spitalfields."

"Aha! I told you we should check first," Clara said smugly.

"Well, my dear, let's not jump to conclusions. Just because the man was well-dressed doesn't mean he –"

"Holmes," Watson interrupted with a smirk.

"Fine," he said irritably. "Let's go to Spitalfields."

*

"How will we know where to go?" Clara asked, stepping out of the coach Lestrade had provided them with.

"We'll wait on Commercial Street for any sign of movement," Holmes replied, quickly scanning the area. The street was poorly lit and it was difficult to make out any signs of movement.

Suddenly, there was a rustling sound in the alleyway behind them, and Clara, who had been standing between Holmes and Watson, quickly grabbed Watson's hand.

"It's just a rat," Holmes assured them. Clara released Watson's hand as if it was on fire.

"Sorry," she muttered quickly. Watson had a panicked look on his face as he made eye contact with Holmes, who simply smirked knowingly.

"It's not late enough," Holmes whispered abruptly. "There are too many people around," he added, indicating to the few people walking the streets. They were eying the trio, who looked terribly out of place.

A man stepped forward out of the darkness. His teeth were practically rotting out of his skull and his left eye was a pale, cloudy blue. He grabbed Clara's arm and said, "Hey there, girlie. What're ye doing on the streets at this time o' night? S'not safe. Here, come wit' me, I'll protect ye."

Holmes and Watson were about to step in to help her, but she spun around and quickly elbowed the man in the gut. "As _tempting _as that sounds," she discretely took out her revolver and pressed under his ribs, "I think I'm going to have to decline your offer."

"Don't you _ever _touch me again, do you hear me? It will be the last thing you do," Clara added menacingly. The man put his hands up in defeat and sunk back into the shadows.

Holmes smiled proudly and Watson stared at her in surprise.

"What?" Clara asked innocently, haughtily leaning up against one of the nearby buildings.

*

They waited and waited for almost four hours. There were plenty of suspicious going-ons over that time span, but nothing that pointed to the Ripper. Until about quarter to four.

Holmes, Watson, and Clara were pacing Commercial Street, when they heard a bone-chilling scream. The three looked at each other in realization and began running towards the sound. They ended up at Dorset Street.

"Where's it coming from?!" Clara hissed in panic.

Holmes, who had given up trying to pin-point the sound, began knocking down every door along the street. Watson followed suit. They finally got the last house on the right side of the street. It was tiny and absolutely no sound was coming from inside. Holmes hesitantly reached for the doorknob. It was unlocked. He gently pushed the door open, knowing what would lie inside.

Clara retched at the scene before them. She couldn't bear to look, and quickly turned into Watson's chest to shield herself from the sight. Inside, there was a corpse mutilated beyond recognition. Without all the blood, it would have been impossible to identify the figure as human.

Watson, too was affected by the scene. "Oh_ God,"_ he said, looking away. Holmes, however, was focused. He dipped his finger in a pool of blood by the door.

"It's still warm," he concluded. Hooves clomped against the cobblestone in the distance.

"No," Holmes hissed, "you're not getting away this time." With that, began to climb onto the roof of the house.

"Holmes! What are you doing?!" Watson yelled up at him.

He didn't answer. He kept climbing. In a flash, he was facing the other side of the street, out of sight. There was a thump and the sound of horses whinnying. Clara and Watson looked at one another and sprinted around the corner. Holmes was on top of a coal-black carriage. He had frightened the horses and caused the coach to wobble.

"Holmes!" Watson screamed in panic. The coach tipped over, sending Holmes flying. He hit the ground with a sickening "thud." Clara immediately ran over to him and knelt down beside his body.

"He's breathing!" She yelled at Watson. "But, he's unconscious!" she added. The driver of the coach had taken quite the fall as well. He, too, was lying unconscious.

There was a groan from inside the coach. Watson stiffened and tightened his grip on his revolver, readying himself for combat.

A man began to climb out the window of the coach. He was completely covered in blood from head to toe.

"Ha-ha-ha!" he cackled manically. "We meet again."

"Don't come any closer!" Watson warned, raising his gun. However, the man did not seem to hear him.

"What did I tell you about meddling?" He said in the tone of voice a parent would use in scolding a naughty child. He was steadily approaching Watson.

There was a gunshot. The Ripper began laughing again; he was already so covered in blood that it was impossible to tell if he had been injured. He turned to the source of the gunshot. Holmes had just regained consciousness and was sitting up. His revolver was smoking.

The Ripper stumbled. He took out a pistol of his own and angrily aimed it at Holmes. There were another two gunshots. Clara screamed. One bullet skimmed Holmes' back. The other was from Watson's gun. His bullet hit the Ripper in the back of the head, causing him to fall face down in a pool of his own blood.

There was a sound of shoes against cobblestones. Watson, Holmes, and Clara looked up to see the horseman running down the street. Clara shot at him, but he was too far away for her to shoot him accurately. Thinking quickly, Watson dropped his revolver and pulled the knife from his cane. He threw the knife and it landed squarely in the man's back. The man had ceased moving and Watson calmly walked over to him, taking out his knife and wiping it on his coat. He flipped the man's body over, revealing Dr. Arthur Redcliff.

"It's Arthur Redcliff," Watson called to Holmes and Clara.

Holmes stood up shakily and Clara helped steady him. They walked over to the body of the Ripper. Neither recognized him, so Holmes began rummaging through his pockets. He felt something strange and pulled it out. Wrapped inside a beautifully made handkerchief was a human heart. Holmes immediately dropped it in disgust and bent over, carefully untangling the handkerchief from the organ. Through the blood, he could see the initials "O.R." embroidered on the fabric.

"Oliver Redcliff," Clara confirmed softly. Holmes nodded silently.

By this time, about a dozen police officers, including Lestrade himself, had arrived at the scene.

"Good work, Holmes," Lestrade said emotionlessly. He was happy it was all over, but the gory scene in front of him stifled all good feelings he might have had.

Holmes was trying to remain conscious through the pain he felt and was now being supported by both Clara and Watson.

"Well… Inspector," he said, trying to retain his usual nonchalance despite his pain, "I believe this means case… closed." He then proceeded to black out.

"If you would be so kind as to provide us with a coach," Watson began seriously, "we'll take him home. He needs medical attention at once."

"Very well," Lestrade said. "We'll talk later."

One of the officers led the three into a carriage. Clara looked back through the carriage window - the police were setting up a rope barrier around the scene and preventing onlookers from breaching the area. She let out a sigh of relief and once again looked forward, into the sunrise.

* * *

**A/N: Alrighty so one of the reviewers, Lee, brought to my attention that the story could kind of go either Watson/Clara or Holmes/Clara at this point. Haha, I don't really know which I want to do... which is a problem... I know right now it seems like Clara isn't really that big of a threat to Watson's engagement, but don't worry, I have a plan. I know what I want to happen between the characters, I just don't know which way I want the story to end. **

**So, please tell me what you think! I'd really like to see which has a bigger following, Clara/Watson or Clara/Holmes. I originally really wanted this to be Clara/Watson, but now I'm having second thoughts... Please review :)  
**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: OK so not a lot of violence in this one, for a change. I hope you don't mind. The next maybe one or two chapters will probably be relatively tame as well, if that's alright.**

**Disclaimer: All I own is Clara.

* * *

**

**Chapter VII**

Holmes awoke to find himself in his bed lying on his stomach. When he groggily opened his eyes, the first thing saw was Watson's blue gaze staring at him intently. Holmes flinched at their proximity.

"Ah, old chap, you're awake!" Watson said cheerfully.

"He's awake?!?!" Holmes heard Clara shriek from the other room. He winced at the noise. Clara came running over to him from around the corner.

"Oh my God," she began, "you _are _awake! How are you feeling?"

Holmes hissed in pain as he tried to turn over on his side. "Easy, there, old fellow," Watson said, helping him.

"Can I get you anything?" Clara asked eagerly.

Holmes' throat was suddenly dry. "Some tea would be nice…" he answered.

"Of course! I'll be right back," she said, leaving the room and walking downstairs.

"What time is it?" Holmes asked his friend.

"Four. You've been out since about five this morning," Watson replied seriously.

Holmes winced as he shifted slightly. "So, what's the damage, doc?" he asked.

"Miraculously, nothing broken besides a few ribs. You chipped you shoulder blade, though. However, it's the gunshot that I'm most worried about. It's only a flesh wound, but you're at risk for infection. If you keep your bandages clean and fresh, you should be fine. If all goes well, you should be almost fully recovered in about a month." Watson said professionally.

"Peachy," Holmes answered.

Clara came through the door with, not only tea, but an enormous assortment of foods. Mrs. Hudson was trailing behind her.

"I didn't know if you were hungry or not, so I brought a little of everything, just in case," she explained.

"Mr. Holmes, you gave us all quite a fright," Mrs. Hudson scolded.

"I'm sorry, nanny. I'll try not to get shot next time," Holmes said sarcastically.

"These two," she continued, ignoring Holmes' tone, "never left your side for more than a minute. I don't know what you did to deserve friends like this."

"Neither do I…" Watson commented dryly.

"Well," Watson continued, "It appears that the situation is under control," a strange look crossed his face, "Clara will have to change your bandages, Holmes. You can't reach them on your own. Or Mrs. Hudson – it doesn't matter who, as long as you don't try yourself. Now, if you don't mind, I must be off."

"Where are you going?" Holmes asked.

"Tea with Mary and her parents," Watson said, smiling sadly. "Good day, Mrs. Hudson. Clara. Take care of yourself, Holmes." With that, he left the room.

"'Tea with Mary and her parents,'" Clara mimicked mockingly. Holmes grinned at her agitation.

"What?" she asked when she realized he was smiling at her.

"Oh nothing…" he replied casually.

"Well, I must be going, as well. I have things to do," Mrs. Hudson said looking between the two. "Be kind to my niece, Mr. Holmes," she warned, leaving the room.

As Mrs. Hudson passed through the doorway, Inspector Lestrade came walking up the stairs.

"How are you doing, Holmes?" he asked from the doorway.

"As well as can be expected, Inspector," Holmes answered.

Lestrade nodded. "The Redcliff brothers are both dead." He held up a newspaper. The headline read, "Jack the Ripper Finally Apprehended!" "However, the brothers' parents requested that we don't name them as the culprits. Usually we don't listen to those kind of requests, but, since _both_ of their children were involved in the murders, we decided to humor them."

Holmes let out a mirthless bark of laughter. "Wouldn't look good if they raised _two _serial killers, eh?"

"No, no it wouldn't," Lestrade said, nodding in agreement.

"So, case closed?" Holmes asked.

"Case closed," he replied.

*  
The next month flew by. Clara diligently attended to Holmes' every need and made sure to keep him healthy. She was quite doting, really. Holmes, however, who was never one to be taken care of, dodged her attempts to fuss over him at all costs. Watson visited occasionally, checking on Holmes' progress. However, he never stayed for long. Watson and Clara were acting quite strange around one another, Holmes noticed. Stranger than usual.

One day, as Clara was busy pouring him tea, he asked, "What happened between you and Watson while I was injured last month?"

Clara almost dropped the teapot. "What makes you think something happened?" she asked nervously.

"Well, before, I wasn't sure. But you just confirmed my suspicion," Holmes said slyly.

_**Flashback…**_

Clara was kneeling next to Holmes' body, brushing the hair away from his forehead. She studied his face sadly.

"Are you in love with him?" Watson asked suddenly.

"What!? No, of course not. Why would you ask such a thing?" Clara responded, shocked.

"The way you look at him…" Watson said irritably.

"I look at him the same way I look at everyone else. I'm just worried, is all," Clara started. She looked at Watson's expression. "Are you – are you _jealous_?" she asked incredulously.

"Don't be ridiculous," he snapped. "I'm getting married in February. How dare you even suggest such a thing?"

"I'm sorry," she said. She really felt they needed to address this friction, and now was as good a time as any. "I'm sorry," she repeated, "but the way you act around me – what am I supposed to think?" She stood up and walked towards him.

Watson, who had been sitting in Holmes' armchair, stood up as well. "And just what way is that?" he asked angrily.

"One minute you're laughing and talking with me, and the next you're ignoring me completely!" Clara exclaimed in outrage. "I'm not stupid," she paused, "there are signs…"

"Look," Watson snapped, "I don't know what rubbish Holmes has been putting in your head, but I love Mary. I truly do."

"Are you trying to convince me, or yourself?" Clara asked innocently. They were close now, almost toe to toe.

Clara glared into Watson's eyes angrily. They were so close. Watson's scowl faltered and Clara's face relaxed.

"This is so wrong," Watson whispered, barely breathing.

"I know," Clara said simply. She wasn't looking into his eyes anymore - she was looking at his mouth.

"Mary..." Watson warned quietly.

"I know," Clara repeated. She could feel his mustache brushing her face.

It was too much. She couldn't help herself. Lightly, she pressed her lips to his; she closed her eyes and he rested his hand on the side of her face. After a moment, they pulled away.

"I'm sorry," she said, tears in her eyes. "I shouldn't have..."

"We mustn't speak of this," Watson said guiltily, "ever."

Clara nodded in agreement. "This never happened."

"I think," Watson began, clearing his throat, "I think that it might be best if we don't see each other quite as often."

"I agree," she replied.

Luckily, only it was only about a half hour of awkwardness until Holmes began to stir.

_**End Flashback…**_

"I can't tell you," Clara said simply. "What happened," she paused, "Is buried in the darkest depths of time, never to be brought up again."

However, from her tone and the expression on her face, Holmes could tell that something had _definitely_ happened. Something that made them steer clear of each other.

_They must have had some sort of romantic encounter_, Holmes deduced, _Watson is a gentleman, though. He must have felt that he took advantage of her or something – which is why he's avoiding her. He must feel guilty about Mary whenever he sees her, as well, even though they aren't married yet. _Technically_, he has no obligation to her._ Holmes did not press the subject further; he was confident that he had figured out what happened.

*

The next few months leading up to Watson's wedding were brutal. Clara shut herself away in her room and Holmes in his. Clara would occasionally go check on him, and he was almost constantly in a state of inebriation.

"Holmes, I'm upset, too, but for god sakes, come on," Clara pleaded. "Why do you do this to yourself?"

"Come here, Clara, come here," he said, frantically beckoning her over to his desk. "I am in the middle of developing a device that will revolutionize combat."

Holmes had set up some sort of crude mannequin; it was wearing a kind of material that vaguely resembled a woman's robe.

"Holmes! Is that my night robe?!?" Clara screamed.

"It's for the sake of science," he assured her.

"Holmes, that was _silk_. Do you have any idea how expensive that was? It was a gift…" Clara whined in despair.

"Shh!" he hissed. "Yes, I know it was silk! That's why I needed it. I'll purchase a new one for you. Just _look_"

He shot the mannequin from across the room.

"I honestly don't understand what this is accomplishing," Clara said distractedly. She picked up the bottle Holmes had been drinking from, trying to determine whether or not the contents were meant for human consumption.

He ran over to the mannequin. "Come here," he said manically.

Clara slowly walked over to the mannequin and crossed her arms impatiently.

He lifted up the silk contraption which had been damaged by the bullet. The mannequin underneath, however, was unharmed. Clara had to admit that she was impressed, but she did not show it.

"Very nice," she said as if she was speaking to a child. "Now, why don't you go clean yourself up. John's rehearsal dinner is tonight."

"What? Already?" Holmes asked in disbelief. "It's only December!"

"It's _February,_ Holmes," Clara stated.

"I missed Christmas? New Years?" Holmes asked frantically.

Clara nodded solemnly. "Watson tried to come talk to you, don't you remember seeing him?"

"Maybe I'll remember later," Holmes reasoned. "It must just be the alcohol. Alright, alright, I'll go clean myself up. What time is it?"

"It's five. The dinner is at seven," Clara answered. "Do you have the ring?"

"The ring!" Holmes exclaimed. "That's right! I'm the best man," he started proudly, "Yes, yes, it must be here somewhere…"

Gladstone started barking and Clara bent over to pet him. "Why is it tied to his collar?" she asked, narrowing her eyes.

"I haven't the foggiest. I didn't put it there, that's for sure," Holmes stated.

"Well, fine. As long as you have it. Come _on_, Holmes, get going!" Clara said, ushering him towards the bathroom.

When Holmes emerged, he looked as good as someone who hadn't eaten or slept in days could possibly look. Clara clicked her tongue in disapproval.

"You're terribly thin, Sherlock," she said despondently. "When will you understand the consequences of your actions?"

"I understand the consequences of my actions perfectly," Holmes answered defiantly.

"Ah," she said, smiling sadly, "But you don't. Or, if you do, you are horribly cruel. I hope to believe it's the former of the two."

"Horribly cruel?" Holmes asked confusedly.

Clara nodded. "How is it, that a man who sees everything does not see what's right in front of him? When you do these terrible things to yourself, you hurt those around you as well. John in particular. That's why he hardly comes here anymore. He can hardly bear to see you like this. And me, well I can't either."

Holmes was oddly touched and at a loss for words. "Well," he cleared his throat, "I mean – I'm sorry – I didn't think…" he stuttered.

"It's alright. I accept your apology." Her tone changed and she said, "But come on! We really must be going!"

Pushing their sentiments behind them, Holmes and Clara exited 221b Baker Street and Holmes hailed a cab. The manner in which they entered the cab could only be described as that of a pair of criminals walking towards their execution.

* * *

**A/N: lol finally, some real romance. I hope it doesn't seem too soon, but if you look at the timeline of the story, they've known each other for like three or four months, which I think is plenty of time for them to be able to kiss. And it's just a kiss- nothing else. Alright, so I hope you like it! _Please _review!**


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Hey everyone! I'm really really sorry I broke my one-a-day streak, I hope you can forgive me, especially since this chapter isn't _terribly_ interesting. It's important, for sure, but it's more to-uh-_set something up_ (without giving too much away) that will happen in the next chapter. For all you Clara/Watson fans, don't despair, there is still hope. But, you may have to wait for a bit. Just remember: Sherlock Holmes never loses sight of what's important. Anyway, here's chapter 8, enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter VIII**

The rehearsal dinner was frightfully dull. Toasts were made, women cried, the usual festivities ensued. When Holmes and Clara returned home, both were in exceedingly foul moods, but for different reasons. Clara was shamelessly jealous of Mary, and Holmes was in denial.

Watson hardly acknowledged Clara (for obvious reasons) and barely spoke to Holmes – he was too engulfed in conversing with Mary's relatives and did not want Holmes embarrassing him.

The next day, they both realized, would put the phrase "living nightmare" to shame. Holmes, who took the whole situation in stride, was faring much better (on the surface) than Clara. She could barely contain her tears as she entered her room. Holmes stood in her doorway, watching her weep in silence. After she had calmed down a bit, he walked over to her and sat at the foot of her bed. He rubbed her back gently.

"There, there," he said hesitantly.

Clara looked at him and laughed, "You're terrible at this," through her tears.

"That may be so," he replied haughtily, "but I'm much too hung-over to try any harder, I'm sorry."

"You can go," Clara insisted gently, "I'll be fine." Holmes simply nodded and closed the door quietly behind him.

Immediately after Clara heard the "click" of Holmes' door shutting, the sound of a violin exploded through the wall. However, for the first time, Clara let the music lull her to sleep instead of keep her awake.

*

_Today is the day_, Clara thought unhappily. From the first day she met Watson, she knew he was engaged. She simply couldn't come to terms with the fact that she had developed feelings for a committed man. She wondered how things might have been different, if Mary never existed – it might well have been her _own _wedding that she was getting ready for. But, alas, it was not, and she and Watson could never be.

As Clara stared at herself in the mirror, running a comb her wavy auburn hair, anger and frustration began to replace her sadness. _Even if this isn't my wedding day,_ She thought, _I'm going to look damn good – to show him what he's missing._ It was petty of her, she knew, but she needed some solace. She needed _something_ over Mary.

Holmes, however, didn't have the same idea. He had drunken himself into a stupor the previous night and could barely bring himself to get out of bed. But, eventually, he succeeded in awakening himself. The gravity of the situation took a minute to set in. _It's really happening_, he thought. In a sudden frenzy, he picked up the nearest bottle (which happened to be lying at his feet) and threw it against the wall. The sound of the glass shattering brought him back from his angry daze.

"Come on, Holmes, think," he muttered to himself.

Sherlock Holmes did not give up. It was a simple concept, and yet somehow few people seemed to understand it. It was what made him a terrific detective and, at times, an insufferably annoying companion. Holmes certainly wasn't about to give up on Watson, that was for sure. Marriage, schmarriage; it meant nothing to him. His only dilemma was coming up with a new strategy. _As circumstances change,_ he thought, _so must plans…_

*

Clara heard a soft knock on her door.

"It is I," Holmes said dramatically.

"Just a minute," she called, putting in her pearl earrings.

When she opened the door, he was stunned. Clara rarely dressed up, and all of a sudden she was the belle of the ball. She was dressed in a rose-colored dress that accented the pink in her cheeks and the red undertones in her hair. It was quite elaborate, and must have taken at least twenty minutes to assemble, Holmes surmised.

Holmes looked dapper in a crisp tuxedo, but he failed to completely manage his dark hair. Or shave, for that matter. However, Clara found that his semi-disheveled appearance suited him well and did not detract from his overall good looks.

"You look ravishing," he drawled.

"Why thank you, kind sir," Clara said stuffily.

Holmes offered her his arm. "Well, Miss, I hear the circus is in town," he said.

Clara nodded and linked her arm with his. "You are correct," she said jokingly. In a more serious tone, she added, "This sure is going to be one _hell _of a wedding."

*

When she and Holmes entered the church, Clara realized that she would be enduring the ceremony alone, for Holmes had to stand beside Watson. She took a seat beside a rather innocuous-looking old woman and prayed for the best. The church was filled mainly with what Clara assumed to be Mary's friends and relatives, which did not surprise her at all. _Selfish little twit_, she thought bitterly.

When the ceremony began and Mary started walking down the aisle, Clara watched as Watson's eyes scanned the crowd. She made eye contact with him briefly, before averting her gaze awkwardly. Holmes stood beside Watson supportively, wearing an unreadable expression. Mary looked gorgeous, as much as Clara hated to admit it. She was undeniably beautiful in her white dress, which was simple, but striking.

When the priest said, "You may now kiss the bride," Clara took it as her cue to look away; she bit her lip in frustration and gazed at the ceiling of the church. The rest ceremony was predictably tedious, and nothing out of the ordinary occurred. However, it was never the ceremony that she was worried about – it was the reception. She knew that Holmes would have to give a toast, which was particularly unnerving.

*

The reception was in a modestly sized ballroom at the Grand Hotel - there were white lilies everywhere. There was a small orchestra playing softly in the background and a large table was set up for all the guests. To Clara's great relief, she was seated next to Holmes, who, in turn, was seated beside Watson. When the drinks were served, Holmes stood and tapped his champagne glass with his silverware.

"Attention, everyone. I would like to propose a toast to my good friend, Dr. John Watson," he began, clearing his throat.

"As many of you know, John and I were business partners and flat-mates. As many of you may not know, we were – and still are, I should hope – brothers. No, not in blood, but in bond. I've said it before, and I shall say it again: I only want the best for you, John," Holmes paused looking directly into Watson's eyes.

"I only want the best for you," he repeated, "and my primary concern has been, and always will be, your happiness." Holmes' tone changed as he said, "I am confident that, in wedding Mary, you have secured for yourself happiness for years to come. Now, when I first met Mary, I must say, I was skeptical – as a friend should be. But, I came to realize that my friend's true contentment was dependent upon this beautiful young woman seated beside him and I eventually accepted that it was time for him to 'leave the nest,' as it were." Watson scoffed at Holmes' last comment and muttered, "_eventually_ being the key word."

Holmes continued smoothly as if he hadn't been interrupted, "So, I would just like to wish my friend and his new wife the absolute best of luck. Congratulations, you two. Mary, take care of him for me." With that, Holmes sat down.

"Well, at least the first part was heartfelt," Clara whispered to him once he was seated.

"Trust me, my dear," he whispered back, "if I had spoken my mind, we would have been thrown out."

"_We?_" Clara asked.

"Yes, of course _we._ I'm your _escort_, silly," he replied sarcastically.

Clara let out a loud and rather un-ladylike snort at Holmes' last comment, drawing a few disapproving glances from some of the older members of the party.

At some point during the meal, Clara noticed Watson's eyes dart between her and Holmes, who also seemed to notice Watson's peculiar behavior. Suddenly, both he and Clara had an epiphany. It was so abrupt, that it was like being struck by lightning. They looked at one another, and then back at Watson, who since diverted his gaze.

"_Love,_" Holmes whispered to Clara, "I do believe that I have just been hit by a most _brilliant _idea."

Clara looked at him in understanding. "As have I," she replied.

At this point, the dinner was ending and Mary and Watson had begun dancing. Numerous couples were quickly following suit.

"_Darling,_ would you care to dance?" Holmes asked Clara dramatically, offering her his hand.

"Why yes, _dear_, that would be simply lovely," she replied, smirking.

In a flash, they were spinning around the ballroom, making quite a show of things. Mary had since ceased dancing with Watson, and was waltzing with her father. Holmes took this as an opportunity to shove Clara into Watson (who looked back at Holmes with a glare that could cause weaker men to commit suicide) and spun off. As to not make a scene, the two began dancing with forced civility.

"Congratulations," Clara said, sounding angrier than she had intended.

"Clara, don't be like that…" Watson pleaded.

Clara scoffed. "Don't flatter yourself, John. I have _other_ things on my mind as of late," she said ambiguously. The song ended with perfect timing and Clara quickly went over to Holmes and practically threw herself at him.

"Let's dance," she said breathlessly, glancing at Watson's surprised expression out of the corner of her eye.

Holmes followed Clara's line of sight and immediately followed suit, pulling her to him and spinning her gracefully. _Ah, _he thought, _jealously _is _the great motivator, after all._

As Clara and Holmes danced by a pair of Mary's friends, she heard a blond whisper to her brunette counterpart, "Would you just look at that? That's Sherlock Holmes and some girl named Clara Barker. I hear they practically _live_ together. Can you imagine? The impropriety of it!"

The other responded, "Oh, yes, I have heard of her. Millicent told me that she is basically his _whore_."

Clara felt her face pale with anger and embarrassment. She immediately stopped dancing with Holmes and went to find a waiter – she needed another drink, immediately. Holmes, however, was unaffected.

"Excuse me, Miss," Holmes said, giving the brunette a dashing smile, "but I think Mr. Robinson over there has a stain on his collar that is the exact same shade as your lipstick. Perhaps you might want to recommend the color to his wife?"

The girl blushed a deep scarlet as Holmes sauntered away confidently. He walked over to Clara, who was downing a glass of champagne rather hurriedly.

"Don't worry about them," he whispered in her ear from behind, causing her to choke on her drink in surprise.

"I see you've discovered the magic of alcohol," he noted snidely.

"Yes," she replied coolly, "it's one that you're well acquainted with, I'm sure."

Holmes laughed, but made no reply.

For the rest of the evening, Clara felt Watson's eyes on her whenever she interacted with Holmes. She knew how absurdly childish she was being, but the satisfaction of hurting Watson in the same way he had hurt her was too much to pass up. However, she had to admit that she _was _a tad confused as to why Holmes was playing along so beautifully, but she didn't dwell on it. She had found that it was best not to delve too far into Holmes' schemes. She knew he was up to something, but she wasn't sure if she wanted to know what, especially if it involved pretending to be in love with her. Unbeknownst to her, Holmes' intentions were more or less identical to her own; he, too, wanted revenge on Watson. Revenge for leaving him, revenge for the betrayal he felt. He also knew that Watson had feelings for Clara and the worst strike was always one to the heart.

By the time Holmes and Clara left the party, both were a little tipsy. The alcohol had enhanced their feelings of betrayal and frustration, creating an extremely volatile mix of emotions. However, neither had had enough alcohol to act rashly, and they were both able to safely exit the premises without assaulting anyone (an admirable feat). At about eleven o'clock, the pair left the Grand and entered a cab headed for 221b Baker Street. Little did they know, however, the night was far from over.

* * *

**A/N: OK so this one's a little wordy, I'm sorry. The next chapter will make it up to you, I promise (well, hopefully it will). Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter! Please review this one! :)**


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: I'm soooo sorry about the wait! I just had so much school work and all that. I just want to take a minute to thank everyone who reads this story. When I first started writing it, I thought that like two people would read it. I'm extremely flattered that so many people like it! Here's chapter 8!

* * *

**

**Chapter IX**

Holmes helped a stumbling Clara from the cab into 221b Baker Street. Clara, unlike Holmes, was wholly unaccustomed to alcohol. She wasn't incoherently drunk, but she was definitely a little off. As Holmes led Clara up the stairs to her room, she stopped him as he reached her door.

"No," she said, "I don't want to go to bed yet. I am fine. Let's go play cards."

"Clara," Holmes replied, "I don't think you're in the right state to be arguing with me."

However, he himself was not entirely unaffected by the alcohol and, against his better judgment, he allowed her into his room. Clara plopped herself onto the sofa and began searching the coffee table for a deck of cards.

"Looking for these?" Holmes asked, tossing her a pack of cards from his dresser. Clara caught them and began shuffling the deck.

"Can I have a drink?" she asked.

Holmes snorted with laughter. "I think you've had quite enough," he said.

Clara rolled her eyes. She stood abruptly and walked towards the liquor cabinet.

"Ah," she said, pulling out a bottle of scotch. "Just what I was looking for. Time to celebrate our dear friend's wedding, old boy."

"Something tells me," Holmes drawled, "that you never had any intention of playing cards."

Clara simply grinned at him in reply and pulled out two shot glasses from the cabinet overhead.

A few shots later, both were sprawled on the sofa. Holmes had had significantly more to drink than Clara, putting them at about the same level of intoxication. He had since abandoned his shot glass and was drinking directly from the bottle.

"Holmes?" Clara asked sadly, "Why d'you think John didn't want me?"

"Dunno," he slurred, staring at the ceiling.

"Holmes?" she asked again.

"Mmph?" was his response.

"Tonight," she said carefully, trying not to slur her words, "is their wedding night." Her eyes were wide. She quickly ripped the bottle of scotch out of Holmes' hand, took a long swig, and gave it back to him. They remained silent for a few minutes.

"Play, me a song, Sherlock," Clara asked suddenly.

"What?" Holmes asked blearily.

"On your violin," she clarified.

"Why?" he asked.

"I want you to," was her brief reply.

Holmes got up with a groan, steadied himself on the arm of the sofa, and picked up his violin. He began playing rather clumsily, but Clara did not seem to notice. She closed her eyes and listened to the music. The only thing that was on her mind was the fact that it was Watson's _wedding night._

Holmes had stopped playing and was staring out his window into the dark streets below. He felt Clara's presence behind him and turned around to see her directly in front of him.

"Remember the first conversation we had?" she asked, staring past him. She didn't wait for him to answer.

"I asked you what you could tell about me," she continued, "and you never answered."

"That is because," he said, "I was rudely interrupted by a certain traitorous wretch who will not be mentioned."

"Well," she said, seemingly oblivious the last part of his statement, "I'm asking you again: what can you tell about me, just by sight?"

She was very close to him and he could smell the alcohol on her breath. They were both in a dreadful state, and Holmes' rational side was screaming at him to tell her to go away. However, he was much too drunk to do anything of the sort.

"I can tell," he started slowly, "that you want me to do this." He put his hand on Clara waist and pulled her to him. He kissed her fervently and Clara noted that kissing Holmes was _entirely_ different than kissing Watson; it was much less proper and much more hurried (although, that may have been on account of the alcohol).

Clara responded to the kiss immediately, wrapping her arms around his neck; all of their pent up emotions were slowly seeping out.

*

Clara sat up, groaned, and held her hand to her head in pain. Her first thoughts were, _where am I?_ She couldn't remember anything. Slowly, she looked around. She was in Holmes' room, but she was in a different place than she usually was. Usually, if she fell asleep, she woke up on the sofa, but she was not on the sofa. She looked down. She was in the bed. The blood rushed to her face in panic; she looked at the floor beside the bed, only to find - gulp - her dress.

She then looked under the covers and let out a sigh of relief. _Thank God, _she thought - at least she was clothed. But she wasn't clothed in anything she recognized as hers. It seemed to be a dress shirt of some sort. Slowly, not truly wanting to see, she turned to her left. Her heart nearly stopped. Beside her, shirtless, was none other than Sherlock Holmes. _Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, OH MY GOD,_ was all she could think.

Immediately, Clara shot out of bed, waking Holmes. He groaned at the noise and rubbed his eyes. When he saw Clara in his shirt, his eyes darted around the room. She could see the wheels turning in his head.

"Oh," was all he managed to squeak out.

"How could this have happened?!?" she wailed in despair.

"Well, we were both quite inebriated, if I remember correctly..." Holmes started, but stopped as soon as he saw Clara's murderous expression. She began pacing the room like a madwoman.

"What does this even mean?!" she cried.

"Nothing," Holmes said stoically, "it means nothing."

Clara stopped pacing and made eye contact with him for the first time.

"Can things really go back to the way they were?" she asked.

"If you wish them to, then they can," he replied.

She nodded her head frantically. "That is what I would like," she said.

"Then that is how it shall be," he said resolvedly.

Holmes got out of bed and began mixing chemicals at his desk. When he had finished, he handed the blue concoction to Clara.

"What is this?" she asked.

"Do you really want to know?" was his response.

Slowly, Clara nodded her head.

Holmes sighed. "An emergency contraceptive tonic," he said.

Clara's eyes grew wide as she frantically gulped down the liquid.

Suddenly, the door to Holmes' room opened.

"Hello, old chap, just thought I would stop -" said Watson's voice. When he saw Clara standing in the middle of Holmes' room, wearing nothing but a dress shirt, his jaw dropped.

Clara's expression was the absolute definition of the phrase "deer in the headlights." Quickly, she collected her clothes from the floor and ran past Watson into her room without making eye contact.

Watson entered Holmes' room and looked at his friend in shock.

"You better have an explanation for this, Holmes," Watson stated.

"Why are you here?" Holmes said, rubbing his temples.

"I wanted to bid you goodbye before Mary and I left on our honeymoon," he replied. "Now, what," he said, pointing to Clara's door, "was _that_?"

"I guess we both just had too much to drink last night," Holmes replied warily.

"This is a disaster!" Watson said, unable to contain his outrage any longer. "How could you do such a thing?! You're not married! Do you know what that means?! Do you understand the severity of this situation?!" he asked angrily.

"Well, first of all," Holmes started, "I don't think any of this is your concern."

"How isn't this my concern? I am your best friend, Holmes! For god sakes! You're going to have to marry her now," Watson said.

"Whoa there, I'm not marrying anyone," Holmes said calmly.

"You _have _to. She could be with child," Watson stated.

"I don't _have _to do anything. And trust me, she's not," Holmes said.

Watson didn't even bother asking how he knew that.

"But you _ruined _her, Holmes! You owe it to her! It's the proper thing to do!" Watson insisted.

"I didn't _ruin _anyone. Are you daft? She doesn't _want _to get married," Holmes said, losing patience.

"She doesn't?" Watson asked weakly.

"No, she doesn't. We've already agreed that everything will go back to the way it was. This was a mistake, but you needn't worry, I've taken care of things," Holmes explained.

"But," Watson asked, losing steam, "don't you love her?"

"No," Holmes said simply.

"But- but I saw you! At the wedding..."

"It was merely a poorly devised scheme to get you to realize Mary is wrong for you," Holmes replied bitterly.

"I'll never realize that, Holmes," Watson said, "because it's not true."

"Tsk, tsk, my dear boy. Someday you will discover that I know you better than you know yourself. Hopefully that day will come sooner rather than later," Holmes said.

"You could have had her," Holmes added.

"I was committed to Mary from the very day I met Clara!" Watson cried, exasperated.

"You could have broken the engagement," Holmes reasoned.

"It wouldn't have been proper - I couldn't do that to her - I _love_ Mary, Holmes," Watson exclaimed.

"Sure you do," Holmes replied, lighting his pipe.

"Well," Watson said, clearing his throat, "if we're quite done here, I'll be leaving. I have my _wife _to attend to."

Without waiting for Holmes to answer, Watson left the room and slammed to door loudly behind him.

Holmes leaned back in his armchair and took a drag from his pipe. He smiled and thought, _someday he will realize, I just hope he does before he's dug himself too deep a hole to escape from._

*****

Florica Petulengro walked briskly down Commerce Street. Florica, or Flora, as she was most often called, had been living in London for about a year. She was a Romanian immigrant and a member of the Romani people. As a gypsy living in London, she faced harsh prejudice and discrimination. She and her four brothers, who were orphans, lived in a red Vardo and relied on dancing and petty crime for a living. Flora was the middle of the five children and was twenty-two years old. Her brothers were named Bo, Stevo, Nicu, and Ion, or Bo, Steve, Nick, and Ian, respectively.

However, today, Flora was bored of stealing and dancing for a living. She wanted something more; she wanted a thrill, she wanted excitement. That was why she was headed to the better part of London to work as a nurse. The job had been difficult to procure, for few people trusted a Romani. However, Flora's exotic beauty and charm had a peculiar power over people, which she was especially thankful for. She had even begun calling herself "Flora Petunia" to help find work. Finally, she had done it. Now, you may be wondering, "why on earth would working as a nurse be either thrilling or exciting?" and you are correct in doing so.

Flora was not what she appeared; she was not the simple, mild-mannered, girl she pretended to me. Actually, she was quite the opposite. She was extremely intelligent and ambitious. However, her only problem was that she was a _tad_ twisted in the head. Not enough to get her sent to Bedlam, but enough to _warp _(to put it gently) her sense of right and wrong. And now, she was headed to the Bromley's with decidedly less-than-honorable intentions on her mind.

*

Clara was at Holmes' desk, flipping through some newspapers. Things were still awkward between the two, but Holmes was not one to dwell on social situations. He was quite ready to put their little encounter in the past and continue forward, as was Clara. She was just having more trouble doing so.

"Here's something interesting," Clara called.

"What is it?" Holmes asked.

"Well, nothing obvious, it's just that there are loads of obituaries. More than I've ever seen before - but it says that they all died of natural causes," she answered.

Holmes took the newspaper from her.

"That _is_ quite unusual," he muttered.

"Come, my dear, my mind is in need of stimulation. Let's go see Inspector Lestrade and have a little chat," he stated.

* * *

**A/N: Wow OK so that's a whole lot to digest. New character, etc. So yeah. Holmes and Clara aren't in love (yet????), they were both just victims of a bad combination of alcohol and emotions. The love each other, but not in a romantic way, y'know? Like good friends. I feel like things like this have definitely happened before in real life, so I hope now one finds it hard to believe? Plus, the fact that Watson walked in on them will just add to the drama. Watson doesn't love Clara, either, he just has slight feelings for her. She actually likes him more than he likes her, BUT THINGS CAN CHANGE. Also, DO NOT TAKE THIS THE END OF ALL CLARA/WATSON POSSIBILITIES. This does NOT mean that I have decided to do Clara/Holmes (but it also doesn't mean that I haven't).**

**And also, thoughts on Flora?? I feel like there need to be more female villains in stories. So there you go. PLEASE review!!  
**


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Chapter 10! Hope everyone likes it. As for the last chapter, I hope no one though Holmes was OOC, just remember things are not always as they seem. I was reading over my little authors note from the end, and seriously? haha I guess that's what happens when you write too late at night. Anyway, we probably won't be seeing much of Watson for a little while because he's on his honeymoon. I'll try to tie him into the story the best I can, though.

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**Chapter X**

Mary and Watson were in the train compartment together, headed for the Italian Riviera. Watson hollowly looked out the window of the train. Currently, they were passing through southern France. The green countryside and beautiful blue sky was a pleasant departure from London's typical rainy atmosphere.

"What's the matter, darling," Mary asked in concern, lightly touching Watson's shoulder.

Her voice roused him from his thoughts. He looked at her and smiled. "Nothing, my dear," he said, giving her a quick kiss.

Mary smiled back at her husband, but was not completely convinced. However, she decided to drop the subject for the time being.

Watson could not believe what he had seen in Holmes' room. When he had first met Clara, she was sweet, innocent, and shy – similar to his Mary. Now, she was becoming more and more like Holmes. _Talk about guilty by association,_ Watson thought sardonically. As far as Watson could tell, Holmes had corrupted Clara, in every sense of the word – in mind, body, and spirit. He wasn't sure what to make of it. He knew that he should be upset and angry with his friend for tainting such an innocent creature – and he was. But, at the same time, a strange, cynical part of him thought that Holmes had actually done her a favor. In making Clara more like himself, Holmes had given her the ability to shield herself from the horrors of the world and the evils of mankind. She was no longer as naïve and trusting as she had been before.

But Clara was not simply a female version of Holmes, either. She still retained some her original bubbly personality; she was just – what was it? Wiser, perhaps? Whatever the case, it didn't really matter to Watson at this point. There was no need to analyze Holmes' and Clara's relationship. If they decided to be together, he would be happy for them; if they didn't, it was just as well. When he saw them together, he would admit that there would always be a slight twinge in his heart, but it could be easily overcome. Now, his primary concern was his wife and his practice. Watson was looking forward to starting a family and having a normal life, for once.

Watson had had feelings for Clara, once, but those days were far gone. He thought back to their kiss; had it been like it was with Mary? He couldn't remember. All he could remember was the guilt he felt. Poor, poor Mary, she deserved better. But, Clara – she was just so – so _alluring_. Something about her. He couldn't pinpoint the source. Yes, she was pretty, but not like Mary. Maybe it was the thrill of the situation, the danger. The very thing that drew him to Holmes. That was his vice, he decided: danger, thrill – adrenaline. But, he would gladly give these up for Mary, his wife – what a foreign phrase. He looked at her a smiled. She was so lovely. Her red hair was tied back in a neat bun and her eyes shone with happiness. He looked back out the window. Yes, everything was going to be just grand.

*

Flora looked down at Mr. Rogers with her beautiful hazel eyes, which were framed by thick black lashes and eyebrows.

"Shh, shh," she cooed, "Don't struggle, darling, it won't hurt a bit."

He was paralyzed, but he looked up at her with panicked eyes.

"Oh, dear, don't look at me like that! I'm helping you, my love!" She said soothingly.

She injected him with some sort of medicine. "I just want to see what happens," she whispered in his ear.

The man started having a seizure and began to foam at the mouth. Suddenly, his fit ceased and he lay motionless. She pressed two fingers to his wrist; her tanned skin contrasted starkly with the man's ashen flesh. She clicked her tongue and shook her head.

"Poor dear," she said, patting his cheek lightly and kissing his forehead. She gathered her equipment and sashayed out of the bedroom, her silky, waist-length black hair swaying silently behind her.

"Mrs. Rogers?" she called as she closed the door behind her. A buxom, middle-aged woman, presumably Mrs. Rogers, appeared.

"I'm sorry," Flora said, tears gathering in her eyes, "there was nothing I could do…"

A sob wracked Mrs. Rogers' body. The poor woman immediately burst into tears. Flora wrapped an arm around the crying form comfortingly.

"I'm so sorry," Flora said, crying silently, "I wish… I wish there was something I could have done."

"It's not your fault, darling," she said through her tears, "he was in an awful state – it's just – it's just even if you're expecting it," a harsh sob tore through her, "it doesn't make it any less difficult."

Flora nodded in understanding. "I'll leave now. I'm truly sorry for your loss," she said, somewhat mechanically, which threw Mrs. Rogers off guard. With that, Flora picked up her briefcase and exited the residence.

Once outside, she quickly wiped the tears from her eyes and giggled giddily.

*

"Honestly, Holmes, I don't know what you're on about," Lestrade said irritably.

"They were all sick, it's really nothing unusual. People die. Now, if you're looking for a case, I can assure you that there are plenty of other ones I can give you," he added.

"If I wanted another case, Inspector, I would ask for one," Holmes replied sharply. "I understand that people die. It's perfectly normal. But there are just so _many_. And they all fit similar profiles."

"What are you suggesting?" Lestrade asked skeptically.

"I'm not really suggesting anything. I just want to know if you've heard anything," Holmes pressed.

Lestrade sighed agitatedly. "There was one call from a Mrs. Rogers. Her husband died quite recently. She requested that we investigate to see if there was any foul play, but she's just distraught over the loss of her husband. We were going to send one of the new officers to calm her down. You can go, if you'd like."

"Excellent," Holmes stated. "And her address is?"

"12 Regent," Lestrade replied shortly.

Holmes exited the building and found Clara leaning against the brick.

"What did he say?" she asked immediately.

"A woman named Mrs. Rogers' husband just died. We're going to investigate," Holmes stated.

Holmes hailed a cab, and the pair set off to Regent Street.

*

Holmes carefully knocked on the front door of the townhouse. A woman in her fifties answered, dressed in black.

"Mrs. Rogers?" Holmes asked hesitantly. The woman nodded.

"I'm Detective Sherlock Holmes and this is my assistant, Miss Clara Barker," he started, "We're here to investigate the recent – er – _circumstances_."

The woman sniffed at the last portion of Holmes sentence. "Come in," she said quietly, moving away from the doorway. She led them into a living room and motioned for them to sit on the sofa across from her. She took a seat in an armchair and called for one of the maids to bring out a tray of tea.

"Now, Mrs. Rogers," Holmes began, "Do you have any reason to suspect that your husband's death was the result of anything but his illness? He had chronic bronchitis, am I correct?" Clara took out a pad of paper and prepared to take notes.

"You are correct," she said carefully, "But for the longest time he seemed to have been improving. We even hired a nurse to make sure he was alright. It all seemed rather sudden."

"Did your husband have any enemies?" Holmes asked.

"Goodness, no! He was quite an amiable fellow," she sniffed again and took a sip of tea, "Wouldn't hurt a fly. No, no, no enemies."

"What was your husband's profession, Mrs. Rogers?" Clara asked.

She smiled sadly, reminiscing, "He was a lawyer," she said.

Holmes snorted quietly and whispered to Clara, "A lawyer with no enemies, that's a laugh."

Clara tried desperately not to smile at Holmes' comment and asked, "So he was working with people on a regular basis?"

"Yes," Mrs. Rogers answered, "But no one from his work ever came into the house. His motto was to never take work home with you."

Holmes nodded. "I can see that you are quite well-off, Mrs. Rogers, approximately how many people are under your employment?" he asked.

"Six, if I remember correctly," she replied.

"And they are…?" he continued.

"Three maids, a butler, a cook, and the nurse," she said. "But the nurse is since unemployed, for obvious reasons," she added.

"And who was the last person to see your husband alive?" Holmes asked.

"Why, the nurse, of course," she answered.

Holmes nodded. "Do you know where we might find this nurse?" he asked.

"Her name was Flora Petunia," Mrs. Rogers said, "But I couldn't tell you where to find her. She was recommended to me by a friend. She was a very sweet girl."

"Could you describe her for us?" Clara asked.

Mrs. Rogers nodded. "She was quite lovely – she appeared to be a bohemian." "But I don't hold that against her," she added, self-righteously. "She very dark, and had greenish-brown eyes. Quite tall and very slender," she continued.

"Was there anything peculiar about her?" Holmes asked.

"No, not that I can remember. Although, after Jonathan died, she did act a tad strange, now that I think of it," she replied.

"Strange in what way?" Holmes asked quickly, a familiar gleam in his eye.

Mrs. Rogers seemed somewhat surprised by Holmes' enthusiasm. "I can't place it exactly. She was just a bit _off_," she answered delicately.

Holmes stood abruptly. "Well," he said, "I think we have all the information we need. Thank you for your time." He extended his hand to Mrs. Rogers, who shook it lightly.

"Yes, thank you," Clara added, "And we are extremely sorry for your loss." She nudged Holmes in the ribs discretely.

"Yes, yes, terribly sorry," he said.

Mrs. Rogers nodded and showed them to the door.

When Holmes and Clara were headed back to Baker Street, Clara said, "Flora Petunia is definitely not a real name."

"You are correct," Holmes said nodding.

"So, how are we going to find her?" Clara asked.

"We're going to have to go undercover," Holmes stated.

* * *

**A/N: So yeah, basically Flora is psycho. PLEASE review! Even if it's not positive, although I love positive reviews :), I would also love some constructive criticism. **


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: OK chapter 11! Thank you to everyone who reviewed! Oh and by the way, I was reading over the last chapter, and I realized that I named the guy Mr. Rogers. I knew while I was writing it that the name sounded familiar, but I didn't think anything of it. When it hit me, I laughed for a good like two minutes. Anyway, I hope everyone likes this!

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**Chapter XI**

_Recap: "We're going to have to go undercover," Holmes stated._

"And just how do you propose we do that?" Clara countered.

"Why, we must pretend to be bohemians, of course," Holmes stated, as if it was obvious.

Clara snorted. "That won't be difficult for you, I know, but what about me? I won't exactly fit in," she replied.

"Hmm," Holmes said, looking her over. "You're right. You are much too fair," he said.

"We must color your hair," he added.

"Color… my… hair?" Clara asked.

"Yes," he said, "it won't be difficult. I just need to whip up a simple silver nitrate solution."

"But – but I don't want to dye my hair," she whined.

Holmes rolled his eyes, "Do you want to find this nurse or not?"

"But coloring my hair won't help my complexion," she reasoned.

"No," Holmes said slowly, "it won't, we'll just have to do with makeup for that part."

Clara sighed irritably. "Fine," she snapped.

*

"It's purple," Clara said shortly. Holmes' concoction had turned Clara's hair a distinctive purplish-black color. It wasn't exactly unbecoming, it was just _strange._ Needless to say, however, Clara was not pleased.

"It's not _purple_," Holmes began, "it just has a slight purple hue."

Clara shot him a deadly glare. "I thought you knew what you were doing," she stated.

"I obviously have never had the need to darken my hair," Holmes explained, pointing to his black locks.

"Why didn't you tell me you'd never done it before?" Clara asked angrily.

"Because then I knew you wouldn't let me do it," Holmes reasoned.

"That's for sure," she scoffed.

"I need a break," she added, rubbing her forehead. "I'll be in my room," she added. With that, Clara was gone.

After she stormed into her room, she immediately picked up Alastair and attempted to calm herself down. To say she was furious would be an understatement. Alright, so maybe she was overreacting. It was just hair, after all – hair would grow back. But it wasn't just that. It was also how Holmes was reacting to their _situation_. He was acting as if nothing ever happened – which was what she wanted, wasn't it? Clara didn't even know what she wanted anymore. She desperately wished she could remember that night. She wondered if she had enjoyed it, she wondered if he had. All she could remember was kissing him and how _different _it was from kissing Watson. It wasn't unpleasant, though.

And then _Watson_. He had seen them; she wondered what he thought about it. _He probably didn't care a bit, _she thought bitterly, _He's much too preoccupied with his own life to care about anything else._ She had cared about him, not to an enormous extent, but enough to be upset when he was married. She knew that she wouldn't see him anymore, which wouldn't be that big of a change, especially since their kiss. That stupid kiss changed everything. She should never have done it, she knew. She should have controlled herself. If she had, perhaps things would be different. Maybe they would still be friends; maybe they would still talk to one another. She certainly missed him, that was for sure. But she wasn't _entirely _to blame. He _had_ kissed her back. Clara laughed humorlessly. It was just like her to ruin her relationships with _both_ the men she cared about.

_**Meanwhile…**_

"Women," Holmes muttered, shaking his head.

He sighed and plopped himself in his armchair. Why did women have to be so – so _fragile_? Before Clara, there was only one woman Holmes could respect. He looked over at his picture of Irene Adler and smiled. He wondered if she was between husbands right now, or whether or not she was enjoying herself. He was surprised that Clara hadn't asked him about the picture yet. He knew that she had seen it, but why she had chosen not to bring it up was a mystery. _Maybe she thinks she's my deceased lover, or something,_ Holmes reasoned. But Clara, contrary to what he had thought, did not seem to be invulnerable to the weaknesses of her kind. _What a pity,_ he thought, _she could have been great. _But she was quite good, he had to admit, maybe just a notch down from Irene status.

He liked her quite a bit, he resolved. He would definitely be able to have her around for a while – which was why he needed to find a way to get her and Watson together. Holmes sighed and buried his face in his hands. And just how was he going to do that? If Holmes knew anything about Watson, it was that he was fiercely loyal – one of the most loyal men he had ever met. There was no way he would be unfaithful to Mary; it was simply not an option. Making Watson and Clara spend large amounts of time together hadn't worked. Trying to make him jealous wasn't working. What _would_ work?

Suddenly, something struck him – maybe he was approaching this whole situation from the wrong angle. What if it was _Mary _he should be focusing on, not Watson? Watson was too good a person to be broken down by Holmes' schemes – they knew one another too well. _Mary, _on the other hand, knew almost nothing about Holmes and, therefore, she would be much more susceptible to his plans. Yes, Holmes resolved, Mary would be his new target. But it would hurt Watson, he knew. Did he want that? _Some things must be done for the greater good,_ Holmes reasoned. Watson was his best friend and he certainly didn't want to see him hurt. But he knew that, in the long run, he would be happier with Clara.

Clara was better suited for him – she was more like Holmes himself, which is what Watson needed. He and Watson were practically married, so why wouldn't Clara and Watson be perfect for one another? She was Watson's type; it was pure logic. He also didn't want to lose his best friend. He knew that, with Mary, Watson would be consumed by things other than Holmes, which was simply unacceptable. They needed to be together – they were partners. With Clara, Watson would still be with Holmes – he wouldn't leave him. Which was why, Holmes resolved, he wouldn't stop until they were together, even if the two fought him the entire way.

*

Clara made her way back into Holmes' room, visibly calmer.

"Better?" he asked.

She nodded. "Let's just get this over with," she said.

"Sit," Holmes commanded, pushing her into his desk chair. He disappeared around the corner and came back with what appeared to be some sort of makeup palette.

The first thing he did was put some sort of beige powder on her face, darkening her skin. Next, he began darkening her eyebrows. As he rested his hand on the side of her face, she felt herself begin to blush. His expression was one of complete concentration and he was staring at her extremely intently.

"I'm not making you uncomfortable, am I?" Holmes asked, smirking slyly.

"N-no of course not," Clara replied quickly. He grinned knowingly.

"You really should forget about it," he said quietly. "Close your eyes," he instructed as he began applying eye-liner.

"How can I forget something I can't remember," Clara said, smiling slightly.

"Relax your face," Holmes said, brushing his hand over her mouth.

"You and I," he started, "are quite alike, I believe. People like us – stop blinking – can't let such trivial things come between us. There are very few people in the world that we are compatible with. Once we find someone we connect with, we can't afford to let them slip away. Otherwise, we will have _no one_. That is why I'm so adamant about keeping Watson around. He is a valuable companion; I can't afford to let him go."

"I hardly think you and I are similar, Holmes," Clara said.

"Ah, but you are wrong. Maybe you don't want to admit it, but we are," he replied.

Clara was about to respond, when Holmes said, "There we are – finished."

He handed her a mirror and she examined herself. The face staring back at her was hardly recognizable. He face, neck, and shoulders were darker than usual, but not uniformly. The somewhat blotchy appearance made her look rather dirty. Her eyebrows were much darker and rather thick looking and her eyes were outlined in black, with black smudges up her eyelids. The darkness of her features contrasted heavily with her light eyes, giving her a very exotic look, overall. Now, Holmes had moved to her hands and arms, making them the same color as her face. When he was finished, Clara began to braid her hair to reduce its bizarre appearance.

"I'll be right back," Holmes said gruffly.

When he returned, he was dressed somewhat differently than normal. He was wearing his shirt open loosely and his vest was opened as well. He had more scarves on than usual and his overall appearance was that of some sort of vagabond.

"How do I look," Holmes asked, spinning.

"I don't see a difference," Clara said dryly. Holmes scowled at her and said, "Well now it's time to dress you."

"I don't really own anything that looks so – so _dirty_," Clara said skeptically.

Holmes rolled his eyes and groaned. "Well, let's take a look then, shall we?" he said, wandering over to Clara's room.

When he was inside, he began going through her armoire, tossing all of her clothes out, one by one.

"You're right," he said once he had finished. "None of these will do."

Holmes left her room and began going downstairs. He stopped at the first landing and opened the window.

"Where are you going?!" Clara called after him, but he had already jumped through the window. She heard a loud crash and ran over to the window to see Holmes casually walking down the street, covered in soot.

About twenty minutes later, the front door of the house opened, revealing a panting Holmes. He had a bundle of rags clutched to his chest and he leaned nervously against the closed door. After he caught his breath, he moved away from the door and began to climb the stairs back up to his room.

Clara, who had been sitting in Holmes room, stood immediately upon his entry. She looked at him and then to the bundle in his arms.

"What is _that,_" she asked in cautious disdain.

"Why, your new ensemble, of course," he replied nonchalantly.

"Where did you get it?" she asked.

"I borrowed it," he said vaguely.

Clara shot him a disapproving glance, but didn't say anything. She took the bundle from him and walked into her room to change. When she emerged, she was wearing a long skirt of various different fabrics and colors and a stiff brown corset over a billowy cream (which probably should have been white) shirt. She tied the red scarf Holmes had given her over her hair and put in a pair of large gold hoop earrings.

She looked at herself in her full-length mirror and smiled.

"This might actually work," she said to Alastair, who meowed in response.

*

"Do you have everything you need?" Holmes asked Clara as they prepared to leave 221b Baker Street.

"Yes, I think so. But we'll be able to come back if we need to, right?" Clara asked nervously; she was clearly not too fond of the idea of living on the streets.

"Yes, but only if it's absolutely necessary," Holmes replied.

"Alright," Clara sighed, "I'm ready."

"Excellent," Holmes replied, "Let's go."

*

When they arrived at the gypsy camp, Clara was extremely nervous. She didn't know much about gypsies, but she knew they were not particularly enthusiastic about outsiders. When they had been spotted by the group, a large burly man walked over to them.

"Who are you?" he asked menacingly in an Eastern European accent.

"We are sorry to bother you, sir, but my wife and me, we just arrived here from France. We have nowhere to go. Would you mind if we stayed near here, just for a little while?" Holmes asked meekly in a thick French accent. Clara followed suit, trying to look at pathetic as possible by clinging frailly to Holmes' coat.

The man looked torn. He glanced over to his caravan and back to the pair. "I suppose you may stay… but only for a little while."

"Oh thank you, sir!" Holmes exclaimed, shaking the man's hand enthusiastically.

"What are your names?" he the man asked.

"I am Pierre Lerouge," Holmes said. Clara was about to respond, but Holmes cut her off.

"And this is my wife, Claire. She doesn't speak any English," he said, looking at Clara teasingly. She glared back at him.

"I am Boris Debrov," he man said, "Welcome."

* * *

**A/N: So, the game is afoot. Please review :)**


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: Oh my gosh you guys, I'm SO sorry, this is the longest I've ever gone without updating! I just had a ton of stuff to do. On a happier note, OVER 100 REVIEWS!!! Oh. my. goodness. I'm so excited. I can't believe people are reading this.

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**Chapter XII**

Boris led Clara and Holmes over to the rest of the group, who were sitting around a large campfire, eating and playing music. When he walked over, he motioned for four people to join him.

"This is my wife," he said, pointing to a short thin woman, "her name is Annie."

"Pleased to meet you," the woman said in an English accent. Holmes' face must have looked surprised, because she added, "I was born here in London, but my parents were from Russia."

"And these are my children," Boris said, motioning to two teenage girls and a young boy, "Svetlana, Anya, and Jack." The children nodded politely in response. Svetlana appeared to be around nineteen years of age, Anya around sixteen, and Jack around nine.

Boris invited them to join the rest of the group by the campfire, and Holmes began talking comfortably with the people. At one point, he even took out his violin, to everyone's great amusement. At the end of the night, Holmes and Clara huddled up against the caravan to go to sleep.

"Merci pour leur dire que je ne peux pas parler l'anglais," Clara said angrily. _(Thanks for telling them that I can't speak English)_

"Pas de problem," Holmes replied, smiling cheekily. _(No problem)_

"Comment est-ce que nous allons trouver l'infermière?" Clara asked. (_How are we going to find the nurse?)_

"We'll stay here and watch for any suspicious activity. It's not as if we will be particularly occupied," Holmes answered.

"Comment est-ce que nous la reconnaissons ?" Clara asked. _(How are we going to recognize her?)_

"You heard the description Mrs. Rogers gave us. We'll simply look for anyone who fits it," he replied. Clara looked at him skeptically and did not seem to think that this was a particularly efficient method, but did not say anything.

*

The next morning, Clara woke up quite early to Holmes' heavy snoring. They had been leaning against one another, and Clara could feel is chest rumbling. She shoved him away roughly, waking him.

"Holmes, you sound like Gladstone!" she exclaimed. However, she immediately clamped her hands over her mouth, quickly remembering that she couldn't speak English. She looked around; thankfully, no one had noticed her little outburst.

"Ah, ah, ah, ma chérie," Holmes said, wagging his finger at her, "pas d'anglais."

Clara glared daggers at him, but kept her mouth shut.

That day, Holmes played his violin on the street for change and Clara kept her eyes open for anything suspicious. She didn't see anything, until just before dinner. All the women were cooking and preparing for the meal, when Clara saw Svetlana disappear into an alleyway. Quickly, Clara followed her. Around the corner she was able to spot Svetlana whispering to a boy about her age.

"Bo," she said, "you know how I feel about you, you just need to ask my father. I can't marry you without his consent!"

"But, Lana, darling, you know he will never agree to it. We are from different backgrounds," the young man pleaded. Unlike Svetlana, he did not have an English accent, but rather a Romanian one.

"You must. It is the only way. I need to get back before they realize I am gone – speak with him, please! My father is a very kindhearted man. He will understand," Svetlana said.

"Fine," Bo said begrudgingly, "but only for you."

"I must be going," Svetlana said. "I love you," she added.

"I love you too. I will ask him soon," he said. They embraced before leaving the alleyway in opposite directions.

Svetlana was heading straight towards Clara, who had pretended to drop something to avoid looking suspicious.

She looked at Clara with a panicked expression, and quickly asked, "You didn't hear anything, did you?"

Clara shook her head in an indication that she didn't understand. "Je ne comprend pas…" she said.

"Oh, you don't speak English? That's just as well, then," Svetlana said, looking relieved.

Clara followed Svetlana with her eyes as she walked away. When she was out of sight, she ran over to find Holmes. She saw him playing his violin and ran behind him.

She gripped his elbow tightly and hissed, "Holmes," in his ear.

He spun around to face her, giving her an odd look. Clara glanced around to make sure no one was listening.

"I can't explain it in French," she whispered, rolling her eyes.

He nodded, and the two made their way to an alley where they could not be heard.

"I just saw Svetlana talking to someone named Bo. He had a Romanian accent. Is that anything of consequence?" Clara asked.

Holmes scratched his head thoughtfully. "It might be," he said, "What were they talking about?"

"It appears that they want to be married, but they are of different groups, or something," she answered.

"Well, if they are in love, then he will surely be back. When he does return, we shall follow him to see where he lives. It's the only lead we've got, so we might as well go with it," Holmes said. He looked around at the all the homeless people lying around lazily. "It's not as if we have anything better to do," he added snidely.

*

As much as he hated to admit it – and he did _hate _to admit it – Watson was growing a little restless. The first week had been heavenly, but they were nearing the completion of the second and things were growing tedious. There was only so much relaxation a man could take! Watson couldn't even believe the thought was going through his head, but he was actually _missing_ Holmes. It felt like a part of him had been left behind in London. He and Holmes had become so accustomed to one another that he felt that they _should_ be together. Whenever someone would say something foolish or ridiculous, he would look over his shoulder to share the joke with his companion, who was never there. It was an odd feeling.

He loved his wife, to be sure, but he was reaching his wit's end in terms of discussing furniture and wallpaper. He had quickly found that moderation was key in topics such as these – one hour for each, _tops. _But he wouldn't let it show. He nodded and smiled when Mary spoke and was polite and gentlemanly to everyone they came across.

Luckily, they were leaving in a few days and soon he would be safely back at 221b – wait. No, he wouldn't. He would be living with his _wife_. Naturally, they had chosen a house somewhat near to Baker Street, but it would never be the same. Never again would he hear the violin at three in the morning. Never again would he come back from the grocer to hear gunshots. Which was good, right? Yes, yes, of course it was. Never mind, everything was going to be just wonderful.

*

Three days later, Holmes and Clara spotted Svetlana sneaking off again. They watched from a distance, and when the couple parted ways Clara and Holmes quickly followed Bo, hiding behind various street vendors and vegetable stands whenever he turned around. The eventually followed him to a secluded spot by the Thames, so it was difficult to stay hidden. He lived in a red Vardo, which seemed to be shared by about four other people.

"That's odd," Holmes said, "They're all alone out here."

"Maybe we should stay here for a little while to see what happens," she said.

Holmes nodded his head in agreement, and the pair settled down up against a stone wall. It was going to be a long night.

*

They had learned that Bo lived with three other men and a woman, who were presumably his siblings. (Why else would a woman be living with so many men?). That morning the woman left. They couldn't get a good glimpse of her because they were so far away, so they decided to follow her into the city. When they were close enough to get a look at her, they realized how astonishingly beautiful she was.

"That could be her!" Clara whispered, remembering Mrs. Rogers' description.

The duo followed her, surprisingly, to the better part of London, where she entered a clean-looking brick townhouse. It was soon painfully clear how out of place Holmes and Clara were and, to avoid suspicion, they began begging for alms. After it became apparent that they would be waiting for a while, Clara expressed her feelings of boredom.

"We have to wait," Holmes said, as if he were talking to a child.

"Fine," Clara answered petulantly. "But we need to talk, then," she said.

Holmes' eye widened. "On second thought, maybe we should go get something to eat…" he began. However, as he started to walk away, Clara grabbed his coat.

"Oh no, you don't," she said, "We are going to talk."

"What could you possibly wish to talk about," Holmes said innocently.

"Oh, gee, I don't know," Clara said, mocking him, "Maybe the fact that _we slept together??"_

Holmes winced, "I thought we went over this..." _If only she knew... _he thought.

"Do you feel anything for me?" she asked abruptly. "Anything? Anything at all?"

"Clara..." he started.

She huffed angrily and studied his face. "How can you not feel _anything_?" she asked.

"Well, do _you _feel anything for _me?_" He countered confusedly.

"I don't know," she mumbled, staring at the ground. She peered up at him and looked into his eyes. His expression was unreadable.

On a whim, she grabbed his lapels and kissed him forcefully. At first, he was taken aback, but he eventually responded to the kiss with the same fervor. When they broke apart, Clara rested against his chest, not quite letting go of him.

"I feel something, but it's different," she said, looking up at him.

"There's something there, but it's not the way it should be," He said gazing into the distance, thinking of Irene.

"But it's not bad," Clara said.

"No, not at all," Holmes agreed.

"What if," she began, biting her lip, "what if it turns into something?"

Holmes finally looked at her and said, "Then so be it."

*****

When the woman emerged, nothing suspicious seemed to have happened. Without thinking, Clara flung herself in front of the woman, causing them both to fall to the ground.

"Oh silly me," Clara said crazily, "I should really watch where I'm going."

The woman glared at her and brushed herself off. "Yes, you should," she agreed coolly.

Desperate to keep the interaction going, Clara thrust out her hand. "I'm Claire," she said.

The woman seemed utterly perplexed as to why Clara was talking to her, but, to be polite, she said, "I'm Flora. Now, I'm sorry, but I really must be going."

When the woman was out of earshot, Holmes looked at Clara, impressed. "I must say," he said, "I never expected such cleverness from the likes of you."

"What can I say? I aim to astound," she replied cockily.

Holmes laughed, but just said, "Come on, let's get going. I want to get home."

"So this means we're not undercover anymore?" Clara asked hopefully.

"No, there's no need," he replied. "We can interview her as our normal selves tomorrow," he added.

Holmes didn't think he'd ever seen someone's face light up so much. Clara grabbed his hand and dragged him in the direction of Baker Street.

* * *

**A/N: Alright so I think all the French is correct, but if something is wrong, please feel free to let me know, it would be much appreciated. Also, if you're thinking that things between Holmes and Clara are kind of weird, just remember that they are both kind of lonely and Clara is feeling really rejected. At this point they kind of just want someone to be with, even if they're not in love. **

**And I just watched the movie again this weekend, and the more I see it the more I am loving Watson. I think it's Jude Law. AND the more I'm HATING Mary. I just had to finally throw that out there. I didn't want it to seem like I was that biased because of the story, but holy crap when she threw her drink on Holmes I got so pissed.  
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	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: OK sorry this took so long, the site was having issues. Thank you to everyone who reviewed! Especially those who do regularly [you know who you are :)]**. **Hope you all like this chapter! Sorry it's kind of short, I'll have another one up quickly to make up for it.  


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**Chapter XIII**

Flora was growing impatient; it had been four days since her last victim, which was far too long, in her opinion. On her way back from purchasing her medical supplies (in a very dodgy apothecary, mind you), she ran into a rather strange looking man – or boy, more accurately. He was quite petite and delicate looking. He was wearing a loose shirt and baggy pants with a gray tweed cap on his head. He grabbed her and dragged her into a dark alley, pressing her up against the wall. Flora tried to scream, but he covered her mouth with his hand.

"You really don't want to be doing this, trust me," Flora said darkly.

The boy snorted. "You don't think I know who you are, Florica?" he said amusedly.

Flora's eyes widened and she struggled against his grasp.

"Wait!" he insisted, "I'm not going to turn you in."

She shot him a confused look. "How do you know?" she asked.

The boy laughed sharply. "You aren't as clever as you may think. You left quite the trail. What I find particularly odd is that the authorities have not seemed to notice. Although, I must say, you were rather difficult to find…"

"What do you want?" Flora asked coldly, glaring at the boy.

The boy grinned broadly, revealing a row of beautifully white and straight teeth. "I would like," he paused, "to offer you a proposition… of sorts…"

*

Watson dropped the last of his and Mary's bags at the top of the staircase. He looked around; home, sweet home.

"I'm going out for a bit of tea with Cynthia, dear," Mary called from downstairs.

"Alright, darling, have fun," Watson replied. The sound of the door closing signaled Mary's departure.

_Maybe I should go check on Holmes_, he thought. No, no. He didn't need to check on him. Holmes was a grown man, for god sakes. Plus, he had Clara to look after him. He was perfectly fine. But still, he had never gone so long without Watson before… a quick visit couldn't hurt… just to see that everything was alright. _No! Gosh, you're being ridiculous, John, _he told himself. He has Clara. Clara. She will take care of him. Of _course_ she will take care of him. She loves him. He loves her, end of story. Right?

Why was it so difficult to process? Could Holmes fall in love? As much as Watson doubted it, he had to admit it was _possible_. Not probable, but possible. He had fallen in love with Irene, once, hadn't he? Were they still in love? He was never sure. And, if he checked on Holmes, he would have to face Clara. That would certainly be _awkward, _to say the least. He couldn't believe that she and Holmes had slept together. It was just so _shocking. _It really bothered him, for some reason. But, he supposed they _should_ put their differences behind them; they couldn't avoid one another forever. Yes, Watson resolved, he would go see Holmes. For old time's sake.

*

John Watson tentatively knocked on the door of 221b Baker Street. It was odd, knocking on the door of the home that he had so often passed through. Mrs. Hudson answered, and her face lit up as she saw him.

"Oh John, dear, it's you! Come back for a visit, have you?" she exclaimed, ushering him into the house. "Are you looking for Mr. Holmes?" she asked.

"Yes, indeed I am," Watson replied.

"Well, he's upstairs, as usual, corrupting my poor niece," she said lightly. _If she only knew the half of it… _Watson thought ironically.

He bowed his head politely and began his ascension to Holmes' room. When he reached the door, Watson lightly rapped on the wood with the metal end of his cane. He heard a shuffle inside, followed by Holmes' voice saying, "Watson? Come in."

Watson opened the door and asked, "How did you know it was me?"

Holmes gave him a look, as if to say "you should know these things by now," but did not verbally reply. Watson noticed that Holmes was at his desk, smoking and reading the paper, and Clara was on the sofa, playing with Gladstone. Nothing seemed to have changed while he was gone.

"John?" Clara asked confusedly, "why are you here?"

"I just thought I might pop in to see that everything is in its proper order…" he answered, rifling through Holmes' various papers and containers lying around. Holmes had since left his desk, and was desperately trying to prevent Watson from disturbing his work.

"Everything is just fine – don't touch that! – no need to worry," he distractedly as Watson lifted a beaker to his nose.

"John," Clara called, deterring him from his quest, "how are you? How is Mary?"

Watson gave Clara his attention for the first time since his entrance. "We are both doing spectacularly, thank you for asking. Did you do something to your hair?" he asked.

Clara looked down at her hands and cleared her throat. "Why don't you ask Mr. Silver Nitrate, over there," she said sarcastically, nodding her head towards Holmes. Watson looked at her sympathetically.

"Judging by your lack of alcohol, Holmes, I would say that you've found another case," Watson said to his friend.

"What's it to you?" Holmes replied coldly, finally ceasing his fussing.

"I was just trying to be cordial," the other man replied, somewhat taken aback by Holmes' venom.

"If you must know," Holmes said, his voice softening, "we have indeed found another case. There have been a string of unusual deaths. We're in the very early stages of investigation, at this point."

"I see," Watson replied politely.

An awkward silence fell upon them, and Clara looked up from her hands and sadly made eye contact with Watson. She silently tried to convey her and Holmes' dismay at Watson's absence. He gave her a look that signified his frustration and understanding, while Holmes began fiddling with the strings of his violin.

"Well," Watson said, breaking the eerie silence, "I must be going."

"Wait, John," Clara said, reaching for his bent arm. He stopped and turned to face her, and she limply dropped her hand to her side.

"Mary is expecting me back," he said quietly, clenching his jaw and raising his chin. He peered down into her melancholy eyes and left without another word.

"For a second there, it seemed like we had him back," Holmes said after a moment, staring into oblivion.

Clara nodded in wordless agreement. Finally, she clapped her hands together in faux-cheer and said, "Let's not mope, we really must be off to interview our dear Flora."

*

Holmes and Clara waited outside of the townhouse that Flora had come out of the previous day, hoping she would appear. Sure enough, at the same time as the day before, Flora Petunia exited the building. Holmes stopped her and pulled her aside.

"Are you Flora Petunia?" He asked.

"Yes," she replied hesitantly, "why?"

"My colleague and I would like to have a word with you regarding your late client's, Mr. Rogers', death," Holmes answered.

"Who are you?" She asked testily.

"I'm Detective Sherlock Holmes, and this is my partner, Clara Barker," he replied automatically. "We would merely like to ask you a few questions," he added.

"I suppose that would be alright," she responded slowly.

"Excellent, if you would just follow us," he said, leading her into a nearby cafe.

The three took a seat and Clara and Holmes sat across from Flora. Clara quickly took out a notepad.

"Now," Holmes began, "how long ago did the Rogers family contact you?"

"About two months before his death," Flora answered coolly.

"And what was his condition at this time?" he asked.

"Not very good. He would get better and worse sporadically," she replied.

"I was informed that he suffered from chronic bronchitis. What types of medication was he given for this ailment?" he pressed.

"Oh, I don't know, Mr. Holmes. I was only the nurse – I just gave him whatever the doctor told me to. I mostly focused on keeping Mr. Rogers comfortable and such," she answered.

"I see. And what was the doctor's name?" he asked.

"Dr. Christopher Hale," she said shortly.

"How did you first become involved in nursing?" Holmes asked, changing the subject.

"Well, you see, I didn't really have many opportunities, but I need to work because my family is not well-off. A very kind woman hired me and it kind of just went from there; she recommended me to others, etcetera," she answered.

"So you were a highly recommended nurse, even though many of your patients have since passed away?" Holmes asked skeptically.

"It wasn't _my _fault they died. They were already sick. Like I said before, my job was mainly just to keep them comfortable," she answered defensively. _Not willing to accept responsibility; no sign of remorse_, Clara wrote.

"Do you enjoy your job, Miss Petunia?" Holmes asked.

"Yes, I enjoy helping people," she answered. Holmes looked at Clara significantly. She quickly scribbled _No mention of sadness towards the deceased when asked about enjoying her profession._

"One last question," Holmes began, "what is your real name?"

Flora looked taken aback, but to avoid suspicion, cooperatively answered, "Florica Petulengro." _Compliant,_ Clara wrote.

"Thank you for your patience, Miss Petulengro," Holmes said, "hopefully, if we meet again, it will be under better circumstances."

Flora nodded politely and quickly left the cafe.

"Now what?" Clara asked.

"We'll be keeping a close eye on her," Holmes began, "but first, we're going to pay Dr. Hale a little visit."

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**A/N: Please review! **


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: Chapter 14! I can't believe how long this has gotten to be! and I'm not even close to finished! I don't know if that's good or not... Oh well, enjoy!

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**Chapter XIV**

_**Flashback…**_

"I would like to offer you a proposition… of sorts…" the strange boy said.

"A proposition?" Flora asked confusedly. The boy nodded and began to lead her out of the alleyway.

"Come with me," he said, pausing for a moment. "Don't try to run, or I'll go straight the police," he added.

After a few minutes of walking, the pair arrived at an apartment building. They entered the building and climbed to the top floor. The boy took out a key and began to unlock the door to one of the rooms. The large oak door opened, revealing a spacious and well-decorated flat. Clearly, the boy, whoever he was, had money.

"What is your name?" Flora asked.

The boy smiled and said, "It would best if that were to remain unknown."

Flora was both agitated and intrigued by this mysterious person. "Then what may I call you?" she asked.

"Boss," the boy said shortly. He took out a tumbler and began pouring an amber liquid into two shot glasses. He handed one to Flora, who was nervously seated on a beige settee. She set her glass down on the coffee table without drinking it.

"Would you please explain what is going on?" she asked.

"Oh, of course! How rude of me. I have an interesting matter for you to attend to," he began. "I want you to kill Sherlock Holmes," he stated nonchalantly.

Flora looked at him confusedly. "Who is Sherlock Holmes?" she asked.

"He is a detective. He's quite intelligent – one of the brightest men of our age. I want you to either bring him to me, or kill him," the boy answered.

"Why do you want to kill him?" she asked, surprised at his bluntness.

"Personal reasons – they don't concern you. All you need to know is that I want him dead," he replied.

"Why me?" Flora asked, now thoroughly lost.

"It seems," the boy paused, letting out a deep sigh, "it seems that he has taken in interest in you."

"But, I've never met a Sherlock Holmes," she answered.

"No," the boy answered smirking, "but you have met a Claire."

Flora knitted her brows in confusion. "You mean that crazy beggar woman from the other day?" she asked in disbelief.

The boy nodded. "That was one of Holmes' assistants, Clara Barker. He was there too, but they were both in disguise," he said.

"Why is he interested in me?" she asked.

"He must be on to you. You're going to have to stop killing for a while – you can't seem suspicious," the boy said.

"How did you know that I had met that beggar?" Flora asked in a sudden realization.

"I had been following Holmes, and I found that he had been following you," he stated shortly.

"Why don't you just kill him yourself?" she countered.

"I'm not nearly creative or clever enough to take on such a monumental task," the boy said, "but you are. I can tell from your previous work that you are quite efficient."

"What makes you think I'll do it?" Flora asked haughtily.

The boy grinned slyly. "I will pay you a hefty sum. I can see that you have a want for money. Plus, it will be fun for you. Just think of it as a new game," he said. "So, what do you say?" he added, putting out his hand.

Flora narrowed her eyes, but took the boy's hand. "Fine," she said, "you've got yourself a deal."

*

Holmes and Clara came to the doctor's office on Conduit Street. They climbed two flights of stairs and sat patiently in the waiting room, until the doctor's apprentice called to them.

"Dr. Hale will see you, now," he said.

Holmes bowed his head in thanks and entered the room, Clara close behind.

"What can I do for you today, Mr. Holmes?" Dr. Hale asked.

"We have a few questions we would like to ask regarding Miss Flora Petunia, one of your nurses," Holmes answered.

Dr. Hale was clearly puzzled. "Alright," he said. He motioned for Holmes and Clara to take a seat in the two chairs across from his desk.

"She was the nurse for your patient, Mr. Rogers, if I remember correctly. Was Miss Petunia an obedient nurse?" Holmes began.

"Why, yes she was. She was very eager to help," Dr. Hale replied.

"Did Flora show an unusual curiosity in any of the medicines you asked her to administer?" Holmes asked.

"Well," Dr. Hale began, "come to think of it… I suppose she might have. She was very interested in what all the medicines did, and what would happen if they were given in excess."

"If I may ask," Dr. Hale added, "why are you asking all these questions? Surely Flora is not a suspect in Mr. Rogers' death?"

Holmes glanced at Clara somewhat nervously. "Well," he began slowly, "we are not really sure who are suspects are, at the moment. We are simply investigating all fronts. Seeing as Miss Petunia was the last person to see Mr. Rogers alive, we thought we might start with her." It was partially the truth.

"Oh," Dr. Hale said, understanding Holmes' logic. "Well, she was fairly normal, other than her strong interest in the medicine, that is. She would sometimes ask to borrow some of my medical anthologies, as well," he added.

"And did you lend them to her?" Holmes asked.

"Yes, I did. It never occurred to me that she might have a sinister use in store for them," Dr. Hale said remorsefully.

"What type of information was listed in these anthologies, doctor?" Holmes asked.

"They were very broad. The topics ranged from advanced medications for complex diseases to simple household techniques to cure minor ailments," Dr. Hale answered.

"Would antidotes and lethal poisons be a part of this anthology?" Holmes continued.

The doctor's eyes widened. "I suppose so…" he said.

Holmes stood abruptly. "Well, I think we have all the information we need. Thank you for your time, doctor," he said. Clara, too, stood and smiled politely at Dr. Hale.

*

Flora leaned against the red Vardo, contemplating her new circumstances. _If that man, Sherlock Holmes, is really as intelligent as that boy seemed to believe, how on earth am I going to catch him?_ she thought. _I'm going to need to study his ways, first. I'll see what sets him off. What his weakness is. That's it – I'll go for the Achilles heel, as it were._ Flora grinned. She hadn't done anything like this before. It was exhilarating. She felt as if she were a fierce predator, hunting her prey. The boy was right – this _would _be fun.

Her first order of business was to find out just where, exactly, Sherlock Holmes lived. It shouldn't be too difficult, she reckoned, she just needed to look up consulting detectives. Surely he was in a directory of some sort. Eventually, she found him – he lived at 221b Baker Street. It was time for Flora to begin stalking her prey.

*

The next day, when Clara and Holmes returned to the townhouse where they had first met Flora, no one emerged. There was no sign of Flora the next day, either. Or the next. At this point, Holmes and Clara decided to investigate. They knocked on the door to the townhouse and a young girl of about thirteen years of age answered.

"May I help you?" she asked.

"Are your parents home?" Holmes asked.

"No, sir," she began, "I live alone with my father, but he's quite ill at the present. My mum passed away a few years ago."

"Oh," Holmes said, surprised, "what's your name, dear?"

"Meredith Gordon," she said, "My father's name is Thomas Gordon."

"Well, Miss Meredith, would it be alright if we asked you a few questions? I'm Detective Sherlock Holmes, and this is Clara Barker," Holmes asked.

"Well, I don't know…" the girl said, biting her lip.

"We don't mean any harm. We just need to ask you about one of your father's nurses," Clara said kindly, pitying the poor child.

"The nurse?" Meredith asked, puzzled. "You mean Flora? She hasn't come here in about a week. She just terminated her service," she said.

Holmes and Clara looked at one another in surprise. "Do you know why?" Holmes asked.

Meredith shook her head. "I haven't any idea, sir. All of a sudden she just decided she didn't want to work for us anymore. It was quite strange, actually," she said.

"Alright," Holmes began, "well, thank you for your time. I hope your father recovers soon."

The girl nodded curtly and quietly shut the door when Holmes and Clara had begun walking away. Clara turned to Holmes and grinned at him.

"What?" he asked.

"You were quite kind to her," Clara said shortly.

Holmes scoffed. "She's nearly an orphan, what was a supposed to do?" he said defensively.

Clara was still smiling goofily. "I just wouldn't expect you to feel sympathy, is all," she said.

Holmes looked at Clara's ridiculous smiling face and felt the corners of his mouth twitch as well. However, he was determined not to give her the satisfaction of smiling, and looked straight ahead. It was only when Clara linked her arm with his and rested her head against his shoulder that he gave up trying to fight the small smile that soon graced his face.

_Well, that's interesting…_ Flora thought, observing from the shadows.

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**A/N: I realize that these last few chapters have been kind of boring, and I apologize. I was having a bit of a writer's block. However, now I know exactly what I want to happen so it should be smooth sailing from here. Thank you to everyone who reviewed last time! Please review again! :)**


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: I meant to address this earlier, but I forgot - a few people have asked me whether or not Irene is going to be in this story, and honestly, I don't know. Review and let me know if you want her to be in it or not, it's up to you guys! OK so this chapter is pretty juicy. Read, and enjoy the DRAMA.**

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**Chapter XV**

"What are we going to do about Flora?" Clara asked.

"I don't know. It's strange that she would just disappear like that. The fact that it was immediately after we spoke with her is very suspicious. It makes for a most convincing argument towards her guilt, though," Holmes answered.

"What do you think her motive is?" she asked.

"I honestly don't really know. It doesn't seem as if she's gained anything from these murders," he replied.

"Maybe she's working for someone," Clara suggested.

"I doubt it. I think it's a purely experimental thing," Holmes countered.

There was a knock on the door. Holmes opened it, and a messenger boy handed him a slip of paper. It read:

Dinner tonight at Woodford's? Seven o'clock. Send messenger back with answer.  
-J. Watson

"Who is it from?" Clara asked.

"Watson," Holmes replied shortly. "He wants us to dine with him tonight. Would you like to?" he asked.

Clara averted her gaze uncaringly. "It makes no difference to me," she said distantly.

"We'll go then," he stated shortly.

Underneath Watson's message, he wrote "We will be there," and handed the parcel back to the messenger, telling him to deliver back to his employer.

*

As Clara was getting ready, Holmes was contemplating his situation. How did Clara feel about him? _She definitely feels _something _for me, _he thought, _but she also still feels something for Watson. Fascinating. _How did he feel about her? He still couldn't figure it out. They were close, but in what respect? Holmes pushed these thoughts out of his head – they were irrelevant.

What was important was: how could he get Mary to be unfaithful to her husband? He had put the case out of his mind for the time being – things like this always had a way of revealing themselves with time. Right now, Holmes was focused on Mary. She did seem to love her husband, much to Holmes' chagrin. It would be difficult. _But, women can be such a flaky breed…_ Holmes reasoned.

He couldn't do it himself, obviously - that would be much too painful for Watson. He needed to hire someone. But who? Where would he find someone to do such a thing? Clara walked into his room, interrupting his thoughts.

"Are you ready?" she asked. He said he was, and the pair headed downstairs.

*

The tension at the table was almost unbearable. Watson was now utterly perplexed as to why he thought this would be a good idea. Hatred towards Mary simply radiated off of both Holmes and Clara, and there was a strong sexual tension between himself and Clara. It was unsettling, to say the least.

"So," Clara began stuffily, "How are things with you and John down at Cavendish Place?"

Mary smiled and looked at her husband lovingly. "Absolutely spectacular!" she exclaimed happily.

Holmes sensed Clara tense up beside him. Watson smiled back at his wife and looked at Holmes and Clara anxiously. Clearly they were far from happy, but Mary didn't seem to notice.

"John and I are so looking forward to starting a family," Mary continued, placing her hand on Watson's knee. Clara looked as if she were about to spring up and attack. Holmes glanced at her nervously and discretely placed his hand on her back in an attempt to calm her down.

Clara forced a smile and managed to say, "How wonderful…"

"Yes," Watson said looking at Holmes significantly, "it is wonderful." Now, it was Holmes' turn to get mad. To him, it seemed like Watson was saying, "_It's time for me to move on to my next phase in life, old boy. You are obsolete._"

"Looks like you're about ready to abandon us, my dear Watson," Holmes said jokingly. Except he wasn't joking, and Watson and Clara knew it.

Watson opened his mouth to reply, but Mary intervened. "Well, don't take this the wrong way," she said seriously, "but John has got to keep his priorities straight, you see. Right now, his main focus _should _be his family."

"I know this whole ordeal has been difficult for the two of you," Mary continued, "I'm no fool. I can see it, even now – you hate that he's left. But, you must accept it."

"Mary," Watson began quietly, "I don't think now is the time…"

"No, John, please let me finish. It's about time we address this topic. I don't want there to be hard feelings between us. Obviously, I'm not saying that John should spend every waking moment with me, but he has his own life, now. You must understand," Mary insisted.

Neither Clara nor Holmes knew quite how to react; both were mildly dumbstruck. Mary and Clara were having an intense stare-down, and Watson fervently whispered to Holmes, "Don't do anything rash…"

But it wasn't Holmes he should have been worried about. Holmes rarely got angry. No, Holmes would be fine – he would deal with the issue internally. Clara, however, could be a little more hotheaded.

After a long moment, Clara cleared her throat and began to speak. "You must think you're clever, having figured that out on your own. Just like your little detective stories. Truth is, I'm mildly ashamed for you that it took so _long. _It's been this way since we first met, don't you see? You think you've won, though, don't you? I know you do. And you have, in a way. Don't look so smug just yet. You've succeeded, yes, in keeping your dear John to yourself - for the time being. You're being very selfish, though. Don't you see? You've torn apart something sacred – you've torn apart John and Sherlock's relationship. What a shame. And you think you're in love. Maybe you are. Maybe your husband _thinks_ he is. But you're still in the honeymoon phase. This happiness will soon dissolve, believe me. Not that I wish it to, I'm merely stating the facts. If your husband truly loved you, would he have kissed me? Oh dear, I've said too much. Oh well, might as well continue, at this point. Yes, you heard me correctly. A few months before your marriage, we kissed - not that it's such a big deal. I trust he hasn't told you, though, judging by your expression. The fact that he hasn't told you speaks novels in itself. But, I digress. You –" Watson interrupted Clara's rant.

"That's enough!" he said in a rage.

Watson had never yelled at her before, and she shut up immediately. Clara looked at Mary, who had begun to cry. She felt a tinge of guilt pull at her heart. Never before had she been so cruel. Watson buried his face in his hands as Mary left the table and headed straight towards the powder room. Holmes looked at Clara with a disapproving expression.

"What have you done?" he said quietly.

"I- I'm sorry," Clara stuttered. "I just- I didn't mean- I couldn't help myself," she managed, tears slowly creeping down her face. Neither of the men answered her. She stood abruptly and headed towards the door.

Clara paced back and forth outside of the restaurant door in the dark. After a few minutes, she leaned up against the wall and sunk to the ground, crying. Holmes was right – what had she done? She'd ruined everything, just because she couldn't keep her emotions under control. She thought she was smarter than that. And the way they all looked at her! She would never forget it – the disappointment, the anger – it was too much. Watson would never speak to her again, that was for sure – and she didn't blame him. She suddenly felt even worse. She had damaged his relationship with his wife. She had jeopardized his happiness, for what? The satisfaction of putting Mary in her place? And Holmes, his relationship with Watson would be even more strained, now. Mary wouldn't allow them to see one another, all because of her. She had done the very thing she criticized Mary for doing. She choked out a sob.

"Why are you crying, girlie?" a feminine voice asked sweetly. Clara immediately stopped crying and tensed up, looking for the source of the sound.

"Who are you?" she called into the dark, readying herself for a fight.

"Oh don't worry about that," the voice said. Clara felt a prick in her neck, and everything went black.

*

"They've been gone for quite a while," Holmes said after about ten minutes.

Watson still had his face in his hands and was shaking his head agitatedly. "How could this happen…" he muttered.

"Forget about it, old chap, I'm sure Mary will understand once you explain the situation to her," Holmes assured his friend.

Watson stood and said, "I'm going to check on Mary."

Holmes nodded and replied, "I'll check on Clara."

When Holmes exited the restaurant, Clara was nowhere to be seen. _She must have gone home_, he thought. But, suddenly, a piece of emerald green fabric caught his eye. It was next to the restaurant wall in a heavily shadowed area. He picked it up and immediately recognized it as a piece of Clara's dress. There was a note pinned to it, which read:

_Dear Sherlock,_

_I've got something that belongs to you. Come and get it, my little rabbit, before it's too late._

_Much love,  
Your pretty little fox_

On the back of the paper, there was an address: _82 Eaton Square._

Holmes rushed back inside the restaurant to see Watson and Mary headed towards the door. They seemed to have made up, and he had his arm around her waist.

"Watson, wait!" Holmes yelled, attracting the attention of many of the patrons.

Watson noticed Clara's absence the paper clutched in Holmes' hand and knew something was wrong. Quickly, he made his way over to his friend.

"What's the matter?" he asked seriously.

"Something's happened to Clara," he replied gruffly, giving the paper to Watson.

Watson read over the note and looked at Mary hesitantly.

"Go," she said simply, smiling sadly.

Watson smiled back thankfully at his wife. He gave her a quick kiss on the forehead and ran out the door, closely following Holmes.

"Who's taken her?" Watson asked, stepping into the cab Holmes had hailed.

"I don't really know," he began, "but I think I might have an idea."

* * *

**A/N: Whoa, so the plot thickens. I hope no one thought Clara was too mean, I just feel like all that anger towards her was just building up, you know? Plus, she felt bad about it at least. So yeah, everyone's pissed at her, but Watson and Holmes will have to put that aside, since she's in danger. Please review! :)  
**


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: Sorry this took so long! School takes up so much time... ugh... But, you can look forward to frequent updates on the weekends, at least. Anyway, THANK YOU SO MUCH TO EVERYONE WHO REVIEWED! :) Oh my gosh, and long reviews? They pretty much make my life. They make me feel like people are actually thinking about the story and such. Enjoy!  
**

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**Chapter XVI**

"Do you have your revolver?" Watson asked, standing beside Holmes outside the large apartment building at 82 Eaton Square. It was a beautiful building, but, strangely, it appeared to be empty.

"Of course, my dear Watson, when have I ever forgotten it?" Holmes asked dramatically. However his tone quickly turned serious and he added, "This is a trap, you know."

"I thought as much," his friend replied simply.

Holmes put his hand on the doorknob and Watson tensed up in a fighting stance.

"Shall we?" Holmes asked, grasping the doorknob tightly. Watson nodded his head curtly and flexed his grip on his revolver. Slowly, Holmes began to open the door.

The sight before them was certainly an eerie one. The entire building seemed to be abandoned, save for a single room on the top floor, where a thin sliver of light was peeking through from beneath the door. Holmes and Watson looked at one another briefly and began their ascension up the first flight of stairs.

When they reached the room, Holmes carefully tried to open the door. It was unlocked. He quietly pushed the door open. The room was dimly lit by candlelight. Up against the far wall, Clara lay deathly still in a large canopy bed; she appeared to be in some sort of comatose state. Watson immediately started towards her, but Holmes put his arm in front of him, blocking his way. Watson shot him a questioning look, but, before Holmes could answer, the door behind them shut with a resounding slam. Holmes looked above the doorframe and saw some sort of mechanical device that had caused the door to close.

"Someone is watching us," Holmes whispered quietly.

"Very good," a female voice giggled. The sound was distant, but it echoed throughout the room.

"Where's that coming from?" Watson asked, turning to his companion. Holmes quickly noticed a small hole in right wall, towards the ceiling. It looked as if a metal tube ran through the wall into another room. A rope, which started over the canopy bed, also ran through the hole. Attached to the end of the rope was a long, thin metal stake. It hung directly over Clara's heart.

"There," Holmes said pointing to the wall.

"Show yourself!" Watson yelled in the direction of the hole. He and Holmes had yet to move from the spot they had been originally standing in.

"No, I don't think I will," the voice replied. "Holmes, I really hadn't expected you to take a guest," it added.

"What can I say? I didn't want to come to the party alone," he had intended his reply to sound cheeky, but it came out as rough and strained.

The voice let out a sweet laugh and said, "No matter, it doesn't make a difference in my little game. So here's how it's played: your dear Clara is not dead, she is merely drugged, as you may have deduced. However, if you make a move to touch her, I will release the rope, which will cause that stake to fall. Obviously, we don't want that to happen, do we? So, to save your pretty little damsel, you must surrender yourself. One body for another, if you will. You shall take a seat in that chair, there, on the left side of the room, and inject yourself with the fluid in the syringe, which is located on the end table beside the chair. Oh, yes, I almost forgot! You have five minutes to make your decision. Good luck!"

Watson looked at Holmes in panic, but his companion did not seem particularly worried.

"Here's what we're going to do," he whispered urgently to Watson. "If I do anything besides sit in the chair, she will become suspicious and we risk her dropping the stake. As quickly as you can, I want you to cut the rope and hold on to it. Your weight should prevent the stake from dropping. She's looking at us, somehow, through the right wall, so you must stay flush up against it. That way, she'll have a hard time seeing you. I'll pretend to inject myself with the poison and fake a respiratory attack. She will be too distracted with my reaction to completely focus on you. When you have cut the rope, I will go to move Clara. Understood?" Holmes asked.

Watson let his friend's words sink in before nodding eagerly.

"Good," Holmes said shortly. He made his way over to the chair, his eyes fixed on the right wall, looking for irregularities. The only thing of interest on the wall was a mirror. Perhaps it was a one-way mirror? Later, he would break it and find out - now, it was time to act. He slid the needle under the cuff of his shirt. He felt the cold liquid squirt over his wrist and began to convulse. In a flash, Watson had cut the rope using the knife in his cane and was hanging on tightly to the rope. He had hooked his foot through a chair to maximize his weight.

"Now, Holmes," he cried, clenching his jaw. "This thing is heavier than it looks!"

Immediately, Holmes flew to Clara's side. He picked her up and set her in the chair he had been sitting in. Watson let out a grunt of relief as he let go of the rope. The stake pierced the bed and caused it to collapse completely. Holmes picked Watson's cane up from the ground and began to smash the mirror. Sure enough, there was a room on the other side; however, it was empty. There was a dumbwaiter, which their attacker must have escaped using, and some sort of control panel. As Holmes laid eyes on the dumbwaiter, he began sprinting down the stairs at lightning speed. Watson scooped up Clara and followed.

Holmes jumped over the banister on the last flight of stairs, cutting their attacker off. As he had expected, the assailant was none other than Florica Petulengro. In her hands, she held a container of gasoline and a gas lamp. Holmes glanced from her hands back up to her face to see her grinning maliciously.

"Watson," he stated calmly, not taking his eyes of Flora, "get yourself out of here. Now."

Watson, who had just gotten downstairs and was panting heavily, looked at Holmes in disbelief. How could he think that he would just leave him behind? However, he quickly remembered that he was now responsible for Clara's life, as well. To make matters worse, she was drugged with god-knows-what chemical. Watson ran out of the building, giving Holmes a sidelong glance, and set Clara down across the street. He knelt down beside her body and saw 82 Eaton Square combust in flames. Now, Watson was by no means a religious man, but, at that moment, he pleaded with God to deliver his friend from the inferno. Five long moments passed - the five longest moments in Watson's entire life. As if on cue, his prayers were answered when he saw two forms narrowly escape from the building. Holmes pursued Flora all the way down the road.

Watson rose to assist Holmes, but then remembered the danger Clara was in. He put his ear to her mouth – she wasn't breathing. Hesitantly, he pressed two fingers to her neck – no pulse, either. But, he kept in mind what the woman had said: _she's not dead_, he he trust her? _Why would she lie?_, he thought He racked his brain for what she could have possibly been exposed to. Only one thing immediately came to mind – Juliet's poison, Cantarella. If that was, indeed, what she had been given, then she should awake in a matter of hours. He sat her up and sighed in relief.

"You'll be alright," he muttered into her hair. On some protective impulse, he lightly kissed the top of her head and gently set her down on a street bench.

"I'll be right back," he said to her unconscious form, running off to help Holmes. He didn't exactly know where they had gone to, but he ran in the direction that Holmes had been going. Eventually, he found them, fighting in an alleyway. Flora had a knife raise while Holmes held her wrist and pinned her to the wall.

"Who are you working for?!" he growled angrily.

Flora laughed manically, her eyes wild. "I'll never tell!" she said.

Holmes growled in frustration; it was clear that this had been going on long before Watson had arrived. Holmes slammed his hand against the wall, beside her head, causing Flora to laugh even harder.

"Holmes," Watson said, alerting them to his presence. "I don't think she's going to tell you," he continued slowly. Holmes' and Flora's eyes snapped to Watson in surprise.

Holmes flinched. "Blast it all to hell!" he exclaimed, throwing his head back. "Don't scare me like that, Watson," he said.

"I apologize," Watson said, clearing his throat, "but I really don't think anything is coming to come out of this."

"You may be right," Holmes started, "but what are we going to do with her?"

They both turned to Flora, who was frantically writhing in Holmes' grasp. Watson shrugged in response. Holmes looked at the ground - it appeared as if his was fighting with himself over some matter.

"Alright," he said, after a moment, "we'll take her back with us for further questioning. I have a feeling we'll at least be able to get some information out of her… even if it requires a little extra _persuasion._"

"Give me your belt, Watson," he added, holding out his free hand.

Watson rolled his eyes – clearly this had happened before. Mechanically, he took off his belt and handed it to Holmes, ignoring Flora's giggling. Holmes pinned Flora's hands behind her back and secured them tightly with the belt.

Now, they were about to begin their trek back towards Baker Street (which was a long one, mind you), when Watson realized they had forgotten Clara (yet again). Quickly he rushed back to where he had left her and picked her up. It was going to be a rather grueling hike back to 221b, to be sure. Thankfully, halfway through their voyage back they encountered a cab, which was quite the stroke of luck in the dead of night. Watson could barely manage to haul Clara up to Holmes' room before dropping her onto the bed like a sack of potatoes. Watson then proceeded to throw himself into the nearest armchair, while Holmes attempted to strap Flora into another chair.

"Just what, exactly, are you planning to do with her, Holmes?" Watson asked.

"As a war veteran," Holmes began, looking up from tying Flora's ankles to the chair, "you should be quite familiar with the notion of using – hold still – of using less than… pleasant… methods to retrieve valuable information."

Watson's eyes widened. "You're planning to _torture_ her?" he asked in shock.

"Well, torture is such a strong word…" Holmes began.

"But – but she's a woman!" Watson reasoned.

"Thank you for pointing out the obvious. I can see that, but I hardly think that matters…" Holmes started again.

"You can't – I – I won't let you! It's _completely _unethical, Holmes, don't you see?" Watson insisted.

"Watson," Holmes said calmly, cutting his companion off, "look at her. She's a murderess. Ethics, in situations such as these, must be put aside."

Watson was about to reply, but Flora cut him off.

"It's fine," she said, grinning predatorily. "I'll take whatever you can dish out."

Holmes looked at Watson and raised his eyebrows.

Watson opened and closed his mouth several times, before saying, "Fine, do what you will, but I won't have any part in it." With that, he left the room and sat by Clara.

* * *

**A/N: Uh ohhhh... what's Holmes planning to do? I would really like feedback, I was a little unsure about this chapter. I hope no one is OOC - that's my worst fear. And I'm STILL having trouble as to deciding who Clara should end up with. I feel like since she and Holmes are kind of similar, and Holmes and Watson have such a close relationship, that she would be good for Watson (disregard Mary, for the moment). But, I also feel like she and Holmes have a lot of chemistry as well. Ugh this is so difficult. PLEASE review!**


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: OK so this one is pretty intense. Thank you to everyone who reviewed! Enjoy chapter 17!

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**Chapter XVII**

"Let's try this one last time: Who are you working for?" Holmes asked.

Flora grinned at him, enjoying his frustration. She tilted her chin up and said, "I shan't tell."

"Fine," he said with forced calmness, "then we will have to do it the hard way."

He walked towards his desk and opened one of the top drawers. He took out two syringes and two vials. He filled the two syringes with the different solutions in the vials.

"Since you're so fond of testing poisons," he began, "let's have you be the patient, for once. In my hands, I have a potent neurotoxin and its antidote. If you are wise, we will only have to do this once."

He put the needle in her forearm, and glanced at her face before proceeding. He really didn't want to do it, he wasn't a cruel man, but it was necessary. She showed no signs of alarm or remorse. _What if this doesn't work? _he thought. But it would work – it had to. Slowly, he injected the venom into her bloodstream.

Flora began to scream despairingly and threw her head back. In the other room, Watson covered his ears sadly. Suddenly, her whole body seemed to go stiff and her eyes widened. Clearly, the paralysis was beginning to set in, which meant it was time for Holmes to give her the antidote. He quickly injected her with the liquid in the other syringe, thankful to end her suffering – at least for the time being.

"Now," he asked, "are you ready to talk?"

Flora bit her lip and looked at him angrily. She was done with her games, it seemed.

"Never," she rasped evilly.

Holmes sighed regretfully. "Alright then, on to round two," he said.

He repeated his previous actions. This time, Flora screamed even more woefully, causing Holmes to wince in remorse.

"How about now?" he asked when she had ceased her wailing.

Flora was panting and looked at him through her thick black hair, which was hanging completely in front of her face.

"I don't know," she said quietly.

"I'm sorry, what was that?" Holmes asked, cupping his hand to his ear.

"I said," she repeated loudly, "I don't know!"

"You don't know who hired you?" Holmes asked.

She merely shook her head in reply.

"How did this person contact you?" he asked.

Flora clenched her jaw and looked as if she was weighing her options.

"He knew you had an interest in me. He just came up to me and offered me a deal," she spat.

"How do I know you're not lying?" Holmes questioned, reaching for the syringe with the poison.

Flora bit her lip once again as her eyes widened. "Wait!" she called desperately.

"I have proof," she said quickly.

Holmes raised his eyebrows questioningly.

"In my boot," she began, "there is a slip of paper. It is the address that I was supposed to go to after I had taken care of you."

He reached his hand into her boot and, sure enough, removed a thin strip of paper.

"22 Dorset Street? Why, that's just down the road," he said, his brow furrowing in concentration.

However, his train of thought was interrupted.

"Holmes!" Watson cried from the bedroom, "Clara's waking up!"

He quickly left Flora and rushed to the bedside. Clara was stirring drowsily. She stretched out her arms and yawned, as if she had just awoken from a deep sleep, not a drug induced coma.

"What happened?" she asked blearily.

"Flora poisoned you when you were outside the restaurant," Holmes said simply.

He eyes widened and she looked at Watson for confirmation. He nodded his head solemnly.

"How did you get me back?" she asked confusedly.

"It's a long story," Watson began wryly, "but it involved me hauling you up numerous flights of stairs and out of burning buildings. You're welcome."

Clara studied her companions' faces. They were both tired-looking and had bags under their eyes. Their clothes were wrinkled and their faces dirty, and both had various scratches and bruises littering their bodies. It was clear that they had been worried about her, and a pang shot through her heart – they truly cared about her, even after she had behaved so terribly. The sudden emotion was too strong for her to bear, and tears began welling in her eyes. She jumped out of bed and embraced Holmes (who was nearest) tightly, and buried her face in his shoulder.

"What would I do without you?" she squeaked tearfully.

Holmes uneasily patted her back and stroked her hair comfortingly. Next, she turned to Watson, who was scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. Not quite sure of what to do, he put out his hand. However, Clara ignored his formal gesture and hugged him tightly, as well.

"Simply platonic," she purred in his ear. He was quite taken aback by her affection, but when they separated she beamed at him comfortably, as if nothing strange had taken place. There was a loud crash in the other room.

"Is someone else here?" Clara asked confusedly.

"Flora," Holmes and Watson said in unison, looking at one another and running to where she was tied up.

"She's here?!" Clara asked in disbelief.

Flora had knocked the chair over and was inching towards the door. However, Holmes quickly stopped her, but she nicked him with a knife. He pulled away and Watson roughly retied her wrist to the chair, forcing the knife out of her hand. Holmes wound was shallow, but he winced in pain and pressed his hand against it. Something wasn't right. His eyes darted from the vial of poison to the knife.

"Watson," he rasped, his breathing heavy.

His friend snapped his head to look at Holmes and quickly became worried when he saw his clammy complexion.

"What's the matter?" he asked quickly.

Holmes limply raised his hand and pointed to the knife on the floor. Immediately Watson understood.

"Clara," Watson called nervously, "she's dipped the knife in the venom. But, stay calm. Go and get a wet cloth for his forehead."

"Easy there, old boy," Watson soothed, gently laying Holmes down on the sofa.

"Clara," he called, again, "Bring me a pan or something."

Clara quickly returned with both the items Watson had requested. Flora was still tied to the chair in the corner of the room, shaking with laughter. However, both Clara and Watson were completely focused on Holmes. Clara handed Watson the pan and set the cold cloth on Holmes' forehead.

"Shh," she shushed calmly, despite the tears gathering in her foggy blue eyes, "it will be alright."

"Watson," he managed through labored breaths, "the poison… distilled… black mamba…"

"Right," Watson said shortly.

He began to try to suck the venom out of Holmes' wound. He spat the mixture of blood, venom, and saliva in to the pan. However, Holmes' condition did not seem to be improving – his limbs were completely stiff and he was quickly losing consciousness. Despite this, Watson was still frantically trying to get the poison out of his friend's system. After a few moments, he appeared to have completely lost consciousness. Watson put his ear to Holmes' chest.

"He's not breathing!" he yelled frantically. He lifted Holmes' arms above his head and pressed them to his chest in an attempt to restart his breathing.

Clara collapsed to the ground in tears. She buried her face in her hands while her entire body was wracked with violent sobs. Watson did not relent in his quest to bring him back – he proceeded, almost manically, pounding Holmes' chest. Clara looked up from her hands darkly, her crying suddenly ceasing. She turned her attention towards Flora, who was near hysterics due to her laughter.

"You think this is funny?" she asked calmly. "How funny is this?" she asked again, picking the knife up from the floor, dipping it in more of the venom, and shoving it through Flora's forearm. Flora howled in pain, unable to remove the knife. Watson was too preoccupied with resuscitating Holmes to notice what Clara had done. After a few moments, Watson hung his head over Holmes' body.

"He's gone…" he said, tears forming in his eyes.

"No!" Clara wailed, throwing herself over his body in despair. "He isn't," she muttered over and over again into the fabric of his shirt.

A few seconds later, she said, "No, Watson, he actually isn't, listen!" She forced Watson's head to Holmes' chest. Both their eyes lit up with hope.

"Well I'll be… there must not have been that much venom on the knife..." Watson mumbled.

"He's alive!" Clara squeaked in happiness.

Holmes began to cough violently and pant, trying to take in as much air as possible.

"That," he said between breaths, "was a close one…"

Clara choked out a laugh between her tears of happiness and hugged Holmes, once again. Watson cleared his throat and tried to hide the fact that he had been flustered.

"Good to have you back," he said, smiling somberly. Holmes smiled back at him tiredly. After staring at one another awkwardly for a little while, Watson embraced his friend (in a very manly way, don't worry), completely catching him off guard. When they pulled apart, both men averted their gaze immediately. Clara grinned at their discomfort.

"How sweet…" she murmured quietly, much to the dismay of the two males.

However, their moment of reunion was interrupted when Mrs. Hudson burst through the door in her nightgown.

"What on _earth _is going on in here?!?" she said frantically.

Her eyes darted from Holmes, who looked as if he had been dragged through hell and back, to Watson, to Clara, whose behavior (in her opinion) had surpassed the term "inappropriate," and finally to Flora's body. This was all too much for the poor woman to handle, and she fainted dramatically in the doorway.

* * *

**A/N: Oh dear, so that was a LOT of crying. Don't worry, this is probably going to be the most angsty chapter (unless you like the angst, in which case, I'm sorry). Goodness, it seems that most people want this to be Clara/Holmes. Hmm... I still have a special place in my heart for Clara/Watson, though (which is what this was supposed to be, originally). And I KNOW about Mary, don't worry. I have a plan for her. But, I have a big question for you all. This isn't the end of the story, but what would you think about a sequel? Would you read it? If so, then I may have some big plans for the future.**


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N: Hope everyone likes this chapter! :)

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**

**Chapter XVIII**

"Aunt Martha? Auntie, I can explain," Clara said as her aunt began to regain consciousness.

"Please do," Mrs. Hudson said faintly, placing the back of her hand to her forehead.

Clara wet her lips and looked nervously from Watson to Holmes, silently asking for assistance. Watson stepped forward.

"Well, you see," he began, "we were working on a case…"

"Of course," Mrs. Hudson groaned, putting her fingers to her temples.

"And, well," Watson continued, "one thing led to another…"

"Is she dead?!" Mrs. Hudson asked in disbelief, pointing to Flora's body. She looked as if she was about to faint again, but Watson caught her just in time.

"Listen, it's a long story. We will take care of it, don't worry. Why don't you just go back to bed, hmm?" Watson placated.

Mrs. Hudson nodded blindly, still in a haze due to shock. She left the room, muttering something along the lines of, "Damn that Sherlock Holmes…" all the way back to her bedroom.

When Mrs. Hudson was out of earshot, Holmes said, "Did you do that?!?" angrily pointing to Flora.

"Well, I – uh – well, if you let me just explain…" Clara stuttered.

"She's _dead, _Clara," Holmes said solemnly. Clara collapsed onto the sofa and put her head in her hands, tears silently streaming down her face.

"I didn't – I didn't mean to – I just – I saw you, and – you weren't moving – and – and – I don't know what came over me," she stammered. Watson and Holmes looked at one another hesitantly – they didn't want to berate the girl when she was already in such a fragile state, so they just let her be. However, now, a valuable source of information was lost. The only lead they had was the slip of paper Holmes had gotten from Flora.

"What are we going to do with her?" Watson asked quietly. His mention of Flora caused Clara to cry harder.

"I can't believe I – I _killed _her. I never would have – I don't know what happened," she managed.

"I'll tell you what happened," Holmes said calmly, "you thought I was dead and, in a fit of rage, stabbed Miss Petulengro in the forearm. The knife you used had a toxic venom on it, which caused her to die. As for the body, we won't get into trouble if we just explain to the authorities what happened. Therefore, we must call Lestrade at once and alert him to the situation."

Watson nodded in agreement, thankful for his friend's level-headedness in times of necessity. He was just about to go towards the telegraph, when Holmes stopped him.

"Wait," he said, raising his arm, "I've just had a brilliant idea." He looked at Clara in a manner that made her very nervous.

"What?" she asked anxiously.

"Flora's dead," he said slowly, "but no one has to know that, just yet."

"What do you mean," she asked, fearing his response.

"The address – the only way we can find out who employed Flora is through a meeting between the two," Holmes replied.

"I don't follow," Clara said, bewildered.

"You must disguise yourself as Flora," he stated simply.

Clara looked at Watson for help, but he leant back against the wall and chose to observe the scene in lieu of become a part of it.

"Have you no respect for the dead?" Clara asked in disbelief.

"I have no respect for those who try to kill me, if that's what you're asking," he answered coolly.

She opened and closed her mouth, unable to find the right words to say.

*

Ten minutes later, Clara was dressed exactly as Flora had been. She combed her hair in front of her face, making it difficult to tell that her features were different. They also put lifts in her shoes, making her taller.

"This is so wrong," she whined.

"You must put that aside," Holmes said, "clearly someone wants us dead, and the only way to stop this is to find them. We must leave as quickly as possible."

"Wait a minute there, old boy. There is NO way you are leaving this house, in your condition. You nearly died! No, only Clara and I will go – you must stay here, I'm sorry," Watson interjected.

"Pish posh, I've been through much worse," Holmes replied, reaching for his overcoat.

"I said no, Holmes," Watson warned in a no-nonsense tone. Holmes, who had to admit his friend was right, looked quite deflated. He lay down on the sofa begrudgingly.

"Fine," he began, "but if you're not back in an hour, I'm going after you."

*

22 Dorset Street. Watson and Clara stood outside the townhouse nervously. _I hope this works… _Clara thought.

"I'll wait outside the door. As soon as it sounds like things aren't going well, I'll come in help you apprehend the culprit," Watson instructed.

Clara nodded dumbly, completely shaken by the night's turn of events. She turned around to see the sun rising behind her before she knocked on the door. Quickly, Watson disappeared behind the stairs leading up to the door. The door opened a crack – the inside of the house was almost pitch-black.

"Flora?" a voice asked.

Clara gulped fearfully – there was no way this was going to work.

"Yes," she said shortly, trying to disguise her voice sound like the other woman's.

"Come in," the voice said, opening the door just enough to let Clara in.

"I trust you have completed the deed?" the person asked. It was difficult for Clara to get a good look at the person, but she was able to see that he was somewhat young looking and very small.

"I have," Clara said.

"What proof do you have?" the boy asked.

Clara showed the boy a lock of hair that Holmes had given her before she left.

"Good," the boy said nodding. "Here is your payment." He handed her a heavy cloth bag filled with coins. It was now or never – Clara had to do something. She shook her hair out of her face and the boy gasped in surprise.

"You're not Flora…" he said, taking out a pistol.

"Now!" Clara screamed frantically.

Watson practically knocked down the door he entered in such a rush. He stood before the pair, pointing his revolver at the boy.

"I suggest you lower your pistol," he said.

The boy dropped his gun, but, before Watson had time to react, he pinned Clara up against the wall.

"You little bitch, you will pay for what you did!" he said.

Clara had no idea what he was talking about, but, quickly, she kneed him in the gut and switched their positions. Now, he was against the wall and her hand was against his throat. The boy reached for the nearest item, which happened to be a heavy metal candlestick, and brought it down hard upon Clara's left wrist. There was a sickening crack and Clara screamed in pain, clutching her wrist to her body. Blood oozed from between her fingers.

Watson shot at the boy, but he had escaped through the back door of the house. He let out a sigh of defeat, and quickly rushed to Clara's side. He grabbed her wrist and surveyed the damage. He could feel her trembling with pain and he looked down at her wound. He breathed in sharply – it wasn't pretty. Her wrist was clearly broken, and tiny bit of bone was protruding from the skin. However, he didn't want to worry Clara with the severity of her injury.

"It's alright," he soothed, "I'll patch you right up once we get back to Baker Street."

"What about the boy?" Clara asked, her jaw clenched in pain.

"We can worry about that later," he replied, "right now, our main priority is to make sure you get the medical attention you need."

When Clara and Watson returned, they were greeted by a large group of police officers.

"What's going on here, Clarky?" Watson asked one of the officers.

"Mr. Holmes called us just a little while ago – said it was important," Clarky replied.

Watson thanked him and helped Clara up the stairs towards Holmes' room. Inside, Holmes was talking to Lestrade while photographs were being taken of Flora's body (which had since been unbound, presumably by Holmes' doing). Clara's gaze darted around anxiously.

"It's alright, Clara," Holmes said, noticing her nervousness, "I've explained the circumstances to Inspector Lestrade – you're not in any trouble, he understands that it was self-defense."

"What happened to your wrist?" he added, his brow furrowing in concern.

"She had a little run in with our good friend, Flora's employer," Watson answered.

"Oh," Holmes said, "so that didn't go well, I take it."

"It went dreadfully," Watson confirmed.

"Well, we can at least search the house, right, Lestrade?" Holmes asked hopefully.

"I suppose so," Lestrade grumbled, "but just make sure to report your findings back to me."

"Of course," Holmes said – clearly, he had no intention of doing so.

Watson pulled Clara away from Lestrade and Holmes and sat her down on Holmes' desk. He placed his hands on her wrist and looked up at her.

"This is going to hurt," he said.

She braced herself against the desk and bit her lip as Watson forced her bone back into place. Tears welled in her eyes and she drew blood from her lip, but she did not cry out.

"Sorry," he said when he had finished pushing the bone back into position. He then proceeded to clean the wound and bind it.

"Thank you," she said, when he had finished. She made eye contact with him for a moment, but he looked away.

"You're welcome. Don't put any pressure on it at all; the bone will need a lot of time to heal. Also, try to change the bandage frequently to avoid infection," he said distantly.

Mrs. Hudson came into the room, furious.

"Sherlock Holmes, I have had it with your shenanigans! First, you turn my house in to an armory, now, this?" she exclaimed.

"Mrs. Hudson, if you would be so kind as to leave me with these fine gentlemen for the time being, I will be quite happy to speak with you later about the circumstances," Holmes said, un-phased.

Mrs. Hudson was about to respond to Holmes, but her eye caught Clara, who shrunk to avoid her gaze. She bustled over to Clara angrily.

"What's happened to you?!" she asked, pointing to her wrist.

"Compound fracture," Watson said scientifically, "she'll be alright in a few months."

"Compound fracture? From what? Clarissa Marie, you just wait until your mother hears about what's been going on – she'll be beside herself!" Mrs. Hudson said.

"Auntie, please! Don't do that, she'll just worry unnecessarily…" Clara pleaded.

"Clara, dear," she said more sympathetically, "I realize that you enjoy Mr. Holmes' work, but this should be proof to you that it is no place for a woman. You'd be much better off just finding yourself a husband – settling down…"

"How can you say that? It's obvious that I'm much happier here than I will ever be with some horrid _husband_," Clara said, trying to reason with her aunt.

Mrs. Hudson shook her head and quietly said, "Oh, Clara…" With that, she left the room, her head bowed in disappointment.

Watson looked at Clara's despondent expression sadly. He wished he could make things easier for her, he really did, but there was nothing he could do. He cleared his throat and said, "I have to be going now, it is imperative that both you and Holmes get some rest. I will return here later to see how you are both doing. Good bye, for now."

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**A/N: I don't know if anyone knows what I'm talking about, but I'll say this anyway without being too obvious: "imitation is the highest form of flattery," right? Then why is it so frustrating? **

**ANYWAY, I hope you all enjoyed this chapter, please review! :)  
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	19. Chapter 19

**A/N: Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter! I apologize, this one is kind of short. But, it's filled with revelations, which is good. So, I've decided I'm going to write a sequel. This one is just already kind of long, and the character development isn't really where I want it to be, so a sequel just seems like the natural solution. Enjoy chapter 19 (wow)!**

**Chapter XIX**

Holmes stood in the foyer of 22 Dorset Street, examining the area before him. His arm was in a sling, but he had cleaned himself up significantly and looked as if he had actually gotten some rest. He wore a black overcoat and a matching bowler hat with a patterned scarf and a pair of round sunglasses. Watson stood beside his friend looking around curiously and casually leaning against his cane. He, too, looked freshly clean and rested. Finally, Clara stood on the other side of Holmes. Despite her arm being in a cast, she looked rather healthy. The front of her hair (which was still an odd color) was twisted into a complicated knot in the center of her head, while the rest of her long locks cascaded down her back. Pretty soon, she would have to cut it short to allow the color to grow out – she was not looking forward to that day.

"Strange," Holmes began, "this is a family home."

"Why is that strange?" Clara asked.

"Because," he started, pointing to a picture on the wall over the staircase, "That man, presumably the patriarch of the family, is not old enough to have a teenage son."

"Which means," he continued, turning to face Clara, "that your little assailant was either an intruder to the house, which is unlikely, or a woman."

"I'm not following," Clara said, her nose crinkled in confusion.

"The attacker must have been the wife of this man," he replied simply.

"Was the person well-dressed?" Holmes asked.

"Yes," Watson stated simply.

"Were his or her clothes too big?" he pressed.

"Yes," Watson repeated.

"Then, it makes perfect sense: she was simply wearing her husband's clothes to disguise herself as a man, most likely to appear more intimidating," he reasoned.

"Well then, we must find out whose home this is," Clara stated.

"Indeed," Holmes agreed.

Without saying a word, he left the house. Clara and Watson looked at one another confusedly before following their friend. Holmes was knocking on one of the neighbors' doors. A sweet-looking elderly woman answered.

"May I help you?" she asked, her voice trembling with age.

"Whose house is that?" he asked abruptly, pointing next door.

"I suppose that's one way to gather information," Watson muttered to Clara.

She grinned at him – it seemed as if things were finally returning to normal. All she had to do was pretend she had no feelings for him whatsoever. _It won't be that hard,_ she thought, _Oh, who am I kidding, it will be torturous – but, it must be done, for the sake of everyone's relationship._

And then there was Holmes. She hadn't really realized how much she cared for him until the night before. They'd almost lost him – what a scary notion. _You don't know what you have until it's gone,_ she noted wryly, _how true. _But in what way did she care for him? She still couldn't figure it out – why did everything have to be so confusing? However, the elderly woman's response roused Clara from her daydreaming.

"Why, that's the Turner residence," she answered.

"And who is the owner of the house?" Holmes interrogated.

"Henry Tuner," the woman replied shortly.

"And do you know where I might find him?" he pressed.

"Oh goodness, I don't know. He's away on business," she answered.

"What about his wife?" Holmes asked, his eyes gleaming with the thrill of a chase.

"His wife is Belinda Turner. But, if she's not home, I don't know where she would be, I'm sorry," she replied.

"Thank you for your patience, Madam," Holmes said, removing his hat and bowing slightly.

"No trouble at all," she answered kindly, softly shutting the door when Holmes had turned his back.

"Belinda Turner," Holmes said shortly. "Ring any bells?" he asked.

Both Watson and Clara shook their heads.

"Me neither," Holmes stated. "Looks like we're going to be doing a little research," he added. The familiar spark had been re-ignited in his eyes. The three then began to walk back towards Baker Street – it was just like old times. The trio was so high on the excitement of a new case, they failed to realize how awful the imminent crash would be, when Watson would have to return back to his new life.

*

"Our first order of business is to find out her maiden name," Holmes said, leaning against Clara's window. They had taken to her room, since Holmes' had quickly become a crime scene.

"Watson," he instructed, "you are the only one who isn't injured, and therefore the quickest. Go to the newspaper agency and ask to see their marriage records. When you have them, return to Baker Street."

Watson nodded and stood abruptly, causing Alastair, who had been resting on his lap, to hiss angrily.

"Sorry," Watson mumbled. He exited Clara's room immediately, not wanting to waste any time. A few moments passed before either Holmes or Clara spoke.

"Why didn't you just give me the antidote, yesterday?" Holmes asked – the thought had just dawned on him.

"She smashed with vial," Clara said simply, looking at the ground. She didn't want to recall the events of the previous night.

Holmes nodded in comprehension. "That really was a close one," he said.

She looked up and met his gaze. She rushed over to him and hugged him tightly, burying her face in the crook of his neck. They both hissed in pain for a moment, because of their injuries.

"We're just a couple of cripples, now," Holmes said lightly. Clara laughed softly through the tears that were running down her face.

"Don't you ever get hurt like that again," she mumbled, "otherwise, I'll have to kill you myself."

He laughed and rubbed her back with his good hand. "I'll try not to," he said jokingly. Clara pulled away and quickly wiped the tears from her eyes, laughing somewhat nervously.

"I don't know what's come over me lately," she began, "all I seem to do is cry. And my aunt… ugh… I can't believe this! She was beginning to be like a second mother to me, and then she has to go and say something like that. That's all people seem to want for me – a husband. Except you and Watson, of course. Maybe that's why we get along so splendidly."

Holmes shook his head. "You don't want a husband. If you were to be married, your groom surely would never let you see us," he said.

"I could just marry you," Clara joked.

Holmes laughed. "I hardly think that is the solution your aunt had in mind," he said.

"You're right, she would probably rather I marry the devil himself," she replied, grinning.

*

"Holmes, Clara! You'll never believe this!" Watson called, opening the door. Clara was painting and Holmes had gotten his violin from his room.

"What is it?" Holmes asked setting down the violin.

"Belinda Turner," he began, pausing dramatically, "used to be Belinda Redcliff."

"Oh my god!" Clara exclaimed, clamping her right hand to her mouth.

"That's certainly… unexpected…" Holmes said thoughtfully. "Well, that explains why she wants to kill us," he added.

"It does, indeed," Watson said.

"The Redcliffs certainly are a sick bunch, aren't they?" Clara asked rhetorically.

"It would appear that way, yes," Holmes began, "Although, she is motivated by something other than a sick desire to kill, which, I suppose, makes her less formidable. Revenge is often a motivator in murders, need I remind you of your own experiences, Clara?"

"How are we going to find her?" Watson asked.

"They're a close family," Clara began slowly, "Maybe she went to her parents' house?"

"That's what we'll try first," Holmes said in agreement.

"I thought you might say that," Watson said proudly, procuring a parcel from his coat pocket. "I took the liberty of looking up their residence, as well. They don't always live in London," he said.

"Where do they live, then?" Clara asked.

"Well, they do have a flat in London, but they also have a large estate in Epping. If I were Belinda, I would want to get out of the city as quickly as possible," Watson reasoned.

"Very good, Watson. I'm impressed – it seems that you _have _learned something from me, after all," Holmes said.

"Don't you think we should check the flat?" Clara asked the two men.

Watson's gaze turned serious. "We already have. Their flat was at 82 Eaton Square," he replied.

"So," Holmes said lightly, "off to Epping, then?"

"Off to Epping," Watson confirmed.

"What about Mary?" Clara said in a sudden realization.

"I've already informed her of the situation. She is in accord with the three of us going alone – she trusts me," Watson answered.

Clara smiled happily, thankful Mary wasn't coming. "Let's get packing, then, shall we?" she said.

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**A/N: OK so, the next chapter is going to be THE BOMB, I promise. You might have to wait a little while, though, with school starting up again tomorrow and such. But, it will be worth the wait. Please review!!! It would be so awesome if I could get to 200 ;) Even if you don't review, thank you for reading!!**


	20. Chapter 20

**A/N: OVER 200! I love my reviewers so much!!!! **

**OK so this one is a little longer than usual :). Hope you enjoy it. Just as a warning, this is probably the second to last chapter in this story, but that doesn't mean it's over! There is a sequel to come! Onwards to chapter 20...  
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**Chapter XX**

Green was the best way to describe it. Everywhere, just green; it _was _spring, after all. A small cottage stood in the center of a large field of grass. In the city, you don't realize the power of spring – the trees, the flowers; they aren't as all-encompassing. The three were temporarily awestruck at the vibrancy of color as they stepped out of the coach.

"It's so pretty," Clara said to herself. Holmes snorted at her childish tone, stepping through a couple of stray chickens and walking straight towards the cottage. He knocked on the round wooded door and a plump woman of about fifty answered.

"Yes?" she asked sweetly.

"We were told by some men in town," Holmes began, motioning to himself, Clara, and Watson, "that you have rooms available for rent?"

"I have _a _room available, yes. Who are you?" she asked.

"Oh, how rude of me!" Holmes exclaimed. "I am Sherlock Holmes, this is my wife, Clara, and my brother, John. We are on our way to visit family, but we've had an awfully long journey and are looking for somewhere to stay for a couple of nights," he answered.

"I suppose it wouldn't be any trouble for you to stay here. I'm Mabel Adams, by the way," the woman replied, letting them into the house.

"Why, thank you ever so much," Holmes said graciously. Both Clara and Watson had to actively prevent themselves from laughing at Holmes' uncharacteristic cordiality.

"Do you have any children, Mrs. Adams?" Clara asked, trying to make small talk.

Mrs. Adams beamed at her. "Why, yes, I do. Two sons, bless their hearts, but they've long since moved out," she said nostalgically. "What about the two of you?" she asked, grinning slyly at Holmes and Clara.

"No, no, we do not," Holmes replied quickly.

"Not yet, you mean?" Mrs. Adams said, winking at Clara, who felt her face grow hot as she desperately tried to hide the blush creeping onto her face. Watson snickered at the ridiculousness of the suggestion.

"Ah," Mrs. Adams said, "here is your room. I'm sorry, but you all will have to share. I hope that's alright."

The room that she led them to was modest – judging by the wallpaper, which was a soft light blue, the room must have been her sons'. The room was perfectly fine except for one thing – there were only two twin beds. When Mrs. Adams shut the door and left them to settle in, the trio looked at one another nervously – they had all realized the bed issue at the exact same time.

"Well," Clara said, breaking the awkward silence, "it looks like someone is going to be sleeping on the floor. And, by someone, I mean one of you two."

"Or, two of us could just share," Holmes suggested.

"Unless you fancy the idea of sleeping with your dear Watson, I don't think that's an option," Clara joked.

"No, no, that won't be necessary," Watson piped in quickly. "I'll sleep on the floor, since both of you are injured," he offered.

"How noble of you," Holmes said dryly. "Well, now that that's settled, let's get to discussing the case!" he added eagerly.

"The Redcliffs are obviously not going to just let us waltz into their home and arrest their daughter, so, we need a plan," Holmes started.

"What do you have in mind?" Watson asked.

"Funny you should ask," Holmes replied, grinning.

* _**The next day…**_

"This had better work," Clara said as they walked through the dark tunnel leading to the Redcliff estate.

The mansion, surprisingly, was only about a fifteen minute walk from the Adams' cottage. It was a lovely Georgian home, complete with formal gardens and an observatory. Holmes had found an old root cellar in the yard that led to the mansion's basement; the three planned to penetrate the house that night and take them by surprise. There would most likely be maids and butlers, in addition to the three Redcliffs. Therefore, secrecy was of the utmost importance.

The three proceeded down the pitch-black tunnel in a single file line; Holmes leading the way with an old lighter, then Clara, then Watson. Clara, who did not particularly appreciate the rats scurrying around her feet, hung on with one hand to the back of Holmes' coat nervously. Suddenly, she walked into something stringy. She tried to stay calm, she really did, but, when she felt something crawl across her face, she lost it. She let out a short, high-pitched shriek and shook her head desperately.

"Spider! Spider! Spider!" she yelped.

"Shh!" Watson said, pressing his hand to her mouth.

"You killed a raving madwoman, but you're afraid of a spider?" Holmes hissed in irritation.

Clara shivered one last time before looking at them apologetically. "Sorry," she mumbled embarrassedly.

"You don't think anyone heard, do you?" Watson asked Holmes worriedly.

Holmes shook his head. "I don't think we're close enough to the house, yet," he replied.

After about another five minutes of walking, the tunnel opened up. The end was blocked by a large wooden crate, which Holmes and Watson moved. When they had a clearer view of the basement, they could see that it was more or less a labyrinth. The ceilings were low and there were damp, stone arches everywhere. It would be impossible for anyone to find a proper way to the surface. Impossible for _nearly_ anyone, that is.

Clara was mumbling something about the filth to herself, but Holmes shushed her frantically. She and Watson froze, waiting to see what Holmes was up to. His finger was suspended to his lips and his expression was one of intense concentration. Suddenly, he flicked open his pocket watch: it was noon.

"Follow me," he said distractedly. He led them around several strange winds and turns, and they ended up in an area seemingly identical to the one that they had come from. They stood in silences for a moment.

"Footsteps…" Clara muttered, after a while.

"Yes," Holmes said breathily, "footsteps. Judging by the number of different people treading on the ground, I would surmise that we are directly below the kitchen, since it is lunch time." His eyes scanned the scenery rapidly, before settling on a small, narrow staircase.

Holmes got halfway up the steps before turning around and facing Watson and Clara, who were still at the foot of the stairs.

"This will most likely lead to a pantry of some sort, which will in turn lead to the kitchen. We _cannot _be seen, do I make myself clear? We are outnumbered, and, if any of us are spotted, the mission will be compromised entirely. We must find Mrs. Turner and get her out of here immediately before proceeding with further questioning," he whispered intensely.

Clara and Watson nodded dumbly in response to his instructions. Holmes turned towards the door at the top of the stairs and placed his hand on the doorknob. Slowly, he turned the brass orb, careful not to make a sound. As he had expected, they arrived in a dark rectangular room filled with cooking items, such as flour, sugar, etc. To their right, they could see light peeking through from around a door. They tip-toed out from the basement and hid behind the various large ceramic jars.

Holmes signaled for them to leave on his indication. He silently began counting down from five with his hand. On his mark, the slowly made their way towards the door, and Holmes began to open it once he saw the figures moving back and forth from underneath cease. He opened the door a crack, and poked his head through, surveying the area. The kitchen was dirty, as if it had just been used. The servants must have left to serve the meal. Holmes took this opportunity and quietly snuck out from the pantry, Watson and Clara close behind. They crept out from the kitchen into a hallway, their backs to a staircase. All of a sudden, they could hear voices. An elderly man and a woman were talking to a servant.

"Arabella, could you take some food up to my daughter," the woman asked the servant.

"Of course, ma'am," the girl replied.

She began walking towards them. Thinking quickly, as usual, Holmes pulled both Clara and Watson into a cupboard under the staircase. They waited until the thumping of the girl climbing the stairs had stopped before they emerged from their hiding place. The trio then nimbly ascended the staircase silently. Holmes saw the tail of the maid's dress turn around the corner and beckoned for his two companions to follow him.

The maid stopped in front of one of many doors along a winding hallway. She knocked and said, "Mrs. Turner, your mother asked me to take you a bite to eat. May I come in?"

Belinda opened the door and put her head out, looking around nervously. When she was satisfied that the maid was alone, she allowed her into her room. When the maid exited the room, she continued down the hallway, shaking her head and muttering, "What a strange one…"

When the maid was out of sight, Holmes leapt towards the door and knelt down beside it, eager to use his leather-bound lock picking kit. He carefully selected the proper tools and went to work opening the door. Eventually, there was a soft "click" and he pushed the door open with the tips of his fingers. When the door was opened, Belinda stood before them, pistol raised – she must have heard the door open. The three entered the room and Watson shut the door behind him to minimize the noise. Belinda followed them with her pistol the entire way.

"You killed my brothers," she said simply, her voice shaking with emotion.

Clara could sense sanity in the poor woman's voice, so she tried to reason with her.

"Listen, Mrs. Turner, I have brothers as well, I can only imagine how horrible what you're going through must be. But, your brothers' deaths could not have been avoided. We didn't want to hurt them, but it was either us or them. You must understand, they were doing terrible, terrible things – they needed to be stopped," Clara said, trying to appease the trembling woman. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Watson take out his revolver.

"Which of you actually did it?" Belinda asked calmly. No one responded.

"I suggest one of you answers, or I'll shoot you all," she said.

"I did," Watson said bravely, stepping forward. He held his revolver behind his back.

Holmes' glance flickered to his friend, and he stepped forward as well. "As did I," he said.

"What a pity," she said, shaking her head, "I was hoping I would only have to kill one."

"Well, then, it's your lucky day," Holmes began, "Because you won't be killing anyone. Now, Watson!"

Holmes took a picture frame off of an end table beside the door and threw it at Belinda, knocking her pistol out of her hand. Watson rushed over to her and restrained her before she had a chance to retrieve her gun.

He pressed his revolver to her lower back and said, "Time to go."

*

Escaping the Redcliff estate unseen had been a difficult feat, and it involved jumping from windows, balconies, and rooftops. However, after a few bruises and scratches, the mission had been accomplished. Before they left the mansion, Clara forged a letter stating that Belinda had, on a whim, returned to London and that she would write again as soon as she got there.

Back at the cottage, they sat Belinda down in a chair and tied her hands behind her back. Luckily, Mrs. Adams was at the market when they returned, so they didn't have to worry about explaining anything to her. Now, they were just waiting for the authorities to arrive. Holmes had telegraphed Lestrade and explained the situation to him. If all went according to plan, he would arrive the next day. Throughout the night, the three took turns watching Belinda and sleeping.

When it was Clara's turn to watch Belinda, she realized that she truly did pity the woman. She remembered how she had responded when she thought Flora had killed Holmes, and was able to easily sympathize with her. Belinda's cheeks were tearstained and she hung her head in defeat.

"Don't worry," Clara said to her, brushing the hair away from her face, "you haven't actually killed anyone, so I'm sure your sentence won't be that bad. If you just explain the situation to them..."

Belinda looked up at her angrily. "Don't try to comfort me, please. I'd like to retain at least _some_ of my dignity," she snapped.

Clara sighed and walked away from her, sitting on the end of the bed Holmes was sleeping in.

"Have it your way," she said quietly.

*

Watson had been watching Belinda when Lestrade arrived. Poor Mrs. Adams was thoroughly confused as to why London police officers were suddenly walking in and out of her humble abode. Clara explained the circumstances to her and she began to fan herself in surprise.

"Undercover detectives?" she repeated in disbelief. Clara nodded her head.

"In _my _home. Goodness me, who would have thought…" she said, trailing off.

"You played an active role in allowing us to stop this criminal, Mrs. Adams. London owes you a great thanks," Clara said exaggeratedly, trying to flatter the kind woman.

"Well, anything to serve my country," she said in response. Clara smiled sweetly at her. She observed as Lestrade and his men escorted Belinda into a coach and began to drive away.

"It seems we must be going, ma'am. Again, thank you so much for your hospitality," Clara said.

"Nothing at all," she replied, waving off her thanks.

Clara left the cottage and stood beside Holmes, who was speaking with one of the officers.

"Holmes," she began carefully, "do you think we might – er – make a _detour_ on our way back to London?"

Holmes looked at her confusedly. "A detour to where?" he asked.

"Well, you see," she started, "my family lives right near here, and, well, I haven't seen them in nearly a year… I just thought this might be a good opportunity…"

Holmes smiled gently at her hesitance. "It's fine with me, I suppose. Although, you should ask Watson," he replied.

Clara beamed at him and ran off to find Watson. He was back in the cottage, collecting his belongings.

"John?" she began, knocking on the doorway.

"Yes?" he answered, looking up from what he was doing.

"Do you think it would be alright if we made a stop on our way back to London?" she asked.

"A stop where?" Watson replied.

"At my family's house. They live right near here, you see," she said.

"I guess that would be fine," he answered.

"Excellent!" she exclaimed, glad to have a break from all the excitement. She was about to leave, but, suddenly, she turned around and said, "John?"

"Yes?" Watson repeated.

She looked at her feet somewhat nervously. "I just wanted to say that I'm glad you're happy with Mary, I really am. I know things between us have been strained, and I did have feelings for you, once, but I realize now that what I wanted can never be. I hope that we can put our past behind us and start anew," she said.

"I don't know what to say," Watson began, surprised, "Except that I would be happy to start over. I very much enjoy being friends with you, Clara."

"And I you," she said, smiling. However, there was a hint of sadness in her words. Watson didn't notice; he smiled back at her.

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**A/N: I hope you liked it :) Lots of adventure in this one... The next one will be much more - um - emotional? I don't know if that's the best way to put it, but it will be less action-oriented. Please review! **


	21. Chapter 21

**A/N: I guess you guys didn't really like the last chapter, since it didn't get many reviews, but, OH MY GOSH! THE LAST CHAPTER! I just want to take a moment and thank everyone who's ever read this, especially those who are loyal readers and reviewers. This is far from the end, though, don't worry. Just think of it as the end of phase one. I hope this one doesn't disappoint!

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**Chapter XXI**

Clara nervously stood outside the door of her former home. It was strange, knocking on the door that she had so often passed through. Holmes and Watson stood on either side of her, mildly worried about what to expect. As soon as she opened the door, Clara's mother clamped her hand to her mouth in shock – for a moment, it seemed as if she was going to faint.

"Clara?!" she asked, afraid she was seeing a ghost, "What are you doing here? Why didn't you warn me you were coming?"

"Well, I just happened to be in the area…" she began, before her mother embraced her tightly, almost lifting her off the ground. Clara inhaled sharply.

"Mum, you're hurting me," she said.

"Oh, sorry!" her mother exclaimed, letting go of her quickly and wiping a few stray tears from her eyes.

"What's happened to your wrist? And your hair?" she asked in shock.

Clara opened her mouth to respond, but Holmes cleared his throat; he and Watson were still standing awkwardly on the doorstep.

"Oh, yes, of course! How silly of me!" Clara exclaimed. "These are my – er – friends, Detective Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson," she explained to her mother.

"_Friends?"_ Mrs. Barker repeated in disbelief.

"Yes, _mother_, friends," Clara said shortly.

"And this," she began, turning to Holmes and Watson, "is my mother, Mrs. Annabel Barker."

"Delighted to meet you," her mother said cheerfully, stepping forth and offering her hand to the two men. Both Holmes and Watson greeted the elder woman politely. Clara resisted the urge to roll her eyes at her mother's flirtatious tone – what opposites they were.

"Please, come in," her mother continued, ushering the small group into the house. As Holmes and Watson walked in front of the two women, out of earshot, Mrs. Barker said to her daughter, "I sent you away to find a man and you come back with _two_!"

Clara blushed furiously, hoping neither of the men had heard her. "It's not like that, mother!" she insisted, lightly elbowing her mother in the arm. Mrs. Barker smirked back at her snidely, but didn't say anything else.

She walked to the foot of the stairs and called, "John, George, come down, we have company!" Then, she walked into the kitchen to fix some refreshments.

Clara led her companions to the sitting room and motioned for them to sit down. Holmes grinned at her mockingly.

"Oh, shut up," she said to him, lightly smacking him on the shoulder. Watson, too, smirked at her amusedly from the comfort of his armchair. Yes, they'd clearly heard her mother's comment. Clara took a seat on the settee, across from the two men. All of a sudden, a boy of about ten or eleven came barreling into the room. His hair was the same color as his sister's, and his face shone with youthful exuberance.

"Clara?!" he cried excitedly.

"Johnny!" Clara called back, standing up and opening her arms; her little brother ran over and hugged her happily.

"I've missed you," she said, kissing the top of his head. Suddenly, she remembered Holmes and Watson.

"Who are they?" her brother asked, somewhat rudely.

"John, remember your manners," Clara scolded. "This is Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson," she explained.

Watson briskly shook the young boy's hand. "Always a pleasure to meet another John," he said, smiling. John grinned back at him toothily – Watson would be a wonderful father one day, Clara noted.

"Oh, I hadn't even realized! You two _are _both Johns," Clara remarked.

Holmes was a little more apprehensive than his friend – he didn't particularly enjoy such formalities. But, he was still kind to the child. "Nice to meet you, old chap," he said, shaking John's small hand.

A few minutes later, Clara's father meandered into the room. Clara went over to him and he embraced his daughter joyfully.

"How is my sister?" he asked.

"She's wonderful, I'll give her your regards when we return," Clara replied.

She turned to Holmes and Watson and said, "John, Sherlock, this is my father, Mr. George Barker." "Father, this is Dr. John Watson and Mr. Sherlock Holmes," she said to her father.

Mr. Barker had always been a friendly man, and he shook the other two men's hands warmly. "Pleased to meet you," he began, "Now, if you don't mind me asking, how do you know my daughter?"

"Oh, don't start the story just yet," Mrs. Barker said while trying to balance a heaping tray of food and drinks. Clara stood to help her mother. When the tray was securely on the coffee table, Mr. and Mrs. Barker took a seat on either side of their daughter, while John sat on the floor between Holmes and Watson – clearly, he had taken a liking to the two strangers.

"Aunt Martha is their landlady," Clara began, "and that is how we first met. The rest is rather complicated, I'm sure you don't want to hear…" However, almost in unison, the three other Barkers said "We want to hear!"

And so, Clara, Holmes, and Watson explained their adventures from the past few months (leaving out the more _unpleasant_ details, of course). While Mrs. Barker looked mildly horrified at the end of the tale, John and his father were both in complete awe. John, particularly, could barely contain his excitement.

"You threw a knife and it hit him from that far away?! You must have wicked aim!" he said to Watson who smiled kindly at the boy's enthusiasm. "And Clara," he said, turning to his sister, "I never would have thought _you_ of all people would be involved in all this."

"Yes, well," Clara began timidly, "things have changed, I suppose…"

Mrs. Barker snorted in a rather un-ladylike manner. "_Changed_ is right. Clara, I think later we may need to have a little chat. Not in front of the company, though, of course," she said.

"Whatever you say, mother," Clara muttered coolly. She was so tired of people telling her how to act – it was beyond the point of being intolerable.

"Mrs. Barker, I would just really like to say, you've raised an absolutely wonderful daughter, you should be very proud," Watson said. _What a sycophant, _Holmes thought sardonically, smirking.

Mrs. Barker beamed at him. "Why, I don't know about that, dear. You're too kind," she said, giggling girlishly. "Now, _Doctor _Watson, are you married?" she asked. _At least _try _not to be so transparent, mother, _Clara thought to herself.

Watson cleared his throat – this was quite the sensitive subject. "Yes, I am, Mrs. Barker. My wife is a lovely woman named Mary," he replied.

"Pity," Mrs. Barker said lightly. Clara shook her head dolefully at her mother's lack of tact.

"What about you, Mr. Holmes?" she asked, turning to Holmes.

Holmes loosened his collar awkwardly. "Why, no, I'm not, ma'am," he said. Mrs. Barker's eyes lit up.

"Annabel, dear, I think you're making the poor man uncomfortable," Mr. Barker interjected. He was usually very passive, but things were beginning to get out of hand.

"Nonsense, George. You're fine, aren't you dear?" she asked. Cutting Holmes off before he had the chance to respond, she continued, "Yes, of course he is." Clara locked eyes with Holmes apologetically.

"Aw, mum, for goodness sakes, lay off 'im," John said defensively. _The boy has his sister's vivacity… _Holmes noted fondly.

"Fine," Mrs. Barker said, sniffing haughtily, "have it your way."

"How are Harry and George?" Clara asked, changing the subject.

"They're both fine. Harry's doing quite well at Cambridge and George's studies are going splendidly," Mr. Barker replied.

"George, my oldest, is studying to be a doctor as well," Mrs. Barker proudly said to Watson.

"How wonderful," Watson said politely. Clara could tell that he was starting to get a tad annoyed with her mother, so she decided to step in.

"Well, mother, we really must be going. I just thought we should stop by to say hello," she said, helping her mother clear the dishes.

"Oh, so soon? Darling, you've just arrived!" her mother protested once inside the kitchen.

"Yes, but we really need to get back to London. Mr. Watson has to return to his wife, you know," she countered. Together, they began to wash the dishes.

"I suppose you're right…" Mrs. Barker began. In a hushed tone, so that the men in the other room wouldn't hear, she added, "What about that Holmes man, dear. Sure, he's a bit eccentric, but, at your age, beggars can't be choosers…"

"Mother!" Clara hissed in outrage, throwing down her dish towel. "I will marry if I am in love, and that's that. Under no other circumstances will I consider it. You must just let it go, I'm not you – I don't _want _to start a family," she said.

"Clara," Mrs. Barker soothed, "don't be cross with me, it's just, as women, we must be practical. This is a man's world, darling. I don't know where you're getting these fantasies of love – perhaps we've indulged you with too many books. Maybe the city is more liberal in its tendencies, but you will never be able to be self sufficient. What you're doing now is all fine and well, but it cannot last. What will you do when you're my age?"

"Mother…" she started, putting her face in her hands, "If. I. Fall. In. Love, _maybe _then I'll get married."

"What about Mr. Holmes, though? You two seem to have a fine relationship. What's the harm?" Mrs. Barker pressed.

"Mother, please, just stop," she pleaded. She looked up at the ceiling to stop the tears from falling from her eyes.

"Fine," her mother said shortly, frustrated with her daughter's stubbornness. They finished cleaning in silence.

When Clara left the kitchen, Holmes and Watson could tell that something was wrong.

"Are you alright?" Watson asked, gently touching Clara's shoulder.

"I'm fine," she said resolvedly. "Let's just go," she added. She bid her family goodbye and hugged her parents tightly. She would miss all of them – even her mother, despite their fight.

"G'bye, Clara," John said sadly.

"Good bye, Johnny. I'll write you soon," Clara said.

"Bye Mr. Holmes, Mr. Watson," he said, shaking their hands vigorously. Clara chuckled at her little brother as Watson ruffled his hair.

"So long," Clara called, waving back at her family as Holmes helped her into the coach.

*

"That certainly wasn't what I expected," Watson laughed as they neared London. The first part of the journey had been passed in near silence, on account of Clara's foul mood. However, she cheered up as soon as they got closer to the city.

"Yes, my mother is a bit overbearing…" Clara said embarrassedly. "They certainly _loved_ the both of you," she said laughing.

"It must run in the family," Holmes said dryly.

"Oh, hush!" Clara said playfully, somewhat shocked at his boldness (although, one should never be shocked by anything that comes out of Holmes' mouth).

She looked over at Watson to notice him staring at her and Holmes strangely, but he broke her gaze immediately. Her smile dropped, as she looked out the window and told herself, _It can never be. It can never be._

First, they dropped off Watson. When he exited the coach, Mary was waiting for him on the doorstep. She hugged him tightly and he spun her around a couple times before she whispered something in his ear. He looked surprised at first, but then he kissed her and they both laughed happily. Holmes had been watching them too, and Clara made eye contact with him. He gave her a quick insincere smile – almost a twitch – before looking away.

A wave of relief passed over Clara as they reached 221b Baker Street. The moment they walked in the door, they were assaulted by Mrs. Hudson.

"Where in God's name have you been?! It's one thing for you to run off on your own, Mr. Holmes, but it's a completely different story when my niece is involved!" she cried.

"Calm yourself, Madam. You lovely niece and I just went on a little trip. We visited your relatives, by the way," he said evenly.

"You did?" she asked in disbelief. Clara nodded in confirmation. "They send their regards," she said shortly.

"Now, if you don't mind, I think I need to wash up after that trip," Holmes said, turning sharply on his heel and starting up the staircase.

"That sounds like a lovely idea," Clara added, "Will you please excuse me?"

"Alright," Mrs. Hudson said belligerently. "But, be sure to tell me next time you run off like that. I was worried sick!" she added.

*

As Clara washed her face, she thought over ever thing that had happened. She tied her hair up and put a bonnet over it to hide her horrid hair color.

She would never be with Watson. Ever. It wasn't possible. She had Holmes, though. Maybe. She didn't have his heart, but she at least had his respect. Perhaps her mother was on to something? What _would _she do when she was old and gray? Did she want to die alone? No, she didn't. And she _did_ feel something for Holmes, but he was incapable of romantic love. Simply incapable – it wasn't his fault; it was just how he was made. _There is that woman in the picture…_ a little voice in the back of her head said.

But, she truly did care about Holmes. More than she ever thought she would when she first met the strange, arrogant detective. She couldn't believe how things had turned out. Did she _love _him? Honestly, she didn't know. She felt something for him that she didn't feel for just anyone – she felt it with Watson, too (_Do NOT think about _him, she told herself). She was happy with Holmes, that, she knew. What more did she want out of life? She could have a chance at happiness, why not take it? It was time for her to grow up – she wasn't some blushing teenager waiting for her charming prince to come. As her mother had said, _be practical._ If Marianne Dashwood could love Colonel Brandon, why couldn't she love Holmes? Time – that's what they needed. Time.

*

Holmes poured water over his head as steam rose from the tub. They were back to where they were. Watson was gone, yet again. He wasn't coming back – he loved Mary. It was over. It was just him and Clara.

Curious. Holmes wasn't one to dwell on the fairer sex, but Clara, somehow, had earned his notice. She had conflicted feelings for him, he could tell. She was hung up on Watson – it would pass. Then, she would turn her attention to him. How did he feel about that? He didn't know. How did he feel about her? He didn't know. He hated emotions – they muddled things unnecessarily. This is why he shut them out. But, there was a nagging feeling in the pit of his stomach – she wasn't ordinary. Of _course_ she wasn't ordinary – she was extraordinary.

She was still a little naïve, true, but she was not like any of the other women of their time. Well, not like _most_ of the other women of their time. There was one other, that he knew of. Irene Adler. If he had to say he ever loved a woman, it would be her. Irene was good-hearted, deep down. _Very_ deep down. Astonishingly deep down. That is to say, quite deep down, in case you didn't get the message. And so was he – and it took less digging to get there, to boot. And so was Clara – no digging involved. She had a pure heart, and he admired that in a person. With all the corruption and overall vileness in human nature, general goodness was a rarity. Which is also why he so admired Watson.

And he would miss Watson's companionship – as much as he disliked admitting it. He would miss it dearly. Clara, theoretically, _could_ provide a similar companionship, if he so wished.

*

Clara entered Holmes' room without knocking. She didn't know what had led her there, but she'd gone on an impulse she couldn't ignore. He was sitting on the sofa, smoking his pipe and reading a book. He seemed to be deep in thought, and did not even look up when she opened the door. Wordlessly, she sat beside him, her hands on her lap. Looking straight ahead, she laid her head down on her shoulder, causing him to finally acknowledge her. He set his book down on the table and looked at her. She smiled gently at him, and he could tell from the look in her eyes that she'd let go of Watson, just as he suspected she would.

She took his pipe out of his mouth and set it on the table, beside his book. He looked down at her in a semi-trance-like state – her face was coming closer to his, and he felt his eyelids automatically droop slightly.

"Miss Barker, are you trying to seduce me?" he asked in a low, playful voice.

Clara smiled slyly at him. "Maybe," she whispered.

And then, she kissed him. At first, it was chaste, calm, _proper_. But, that didn't last long. Quickly, it became more passionate and frenzied before either of them realized what was happening. Clara's entire body felt as if it was on fire, and she was becoming dizzy due to lack of air. The passion in the moment was entirely unlike Clara had ever felt before, or expected. When she had decided to kiss Holmes, she'd thought it would be quick, comforting - in other words, nothing like it had become.

Now, it was almost as if their bodies were acting on their own accord. Holmes' hand wound itself in her hair (her bonnet had been quickly discarded) and she gently placed her good hand on the side of his face, bringing him closer to her (which wasn't exactly possible...). Her hand fluttered from his cheek to the top of his collar, where she subconsciously began to loosen his cravat...

All of a sudden, there was a brisk rap on the door, causing them to shoot apart, surprised. Clara groaned softly and Holmes' walked over to the door, straightening his cravat and trying to regulate his breathing.

It was Watson – the only time Clara had seen him so distraught was when Holmes almost died. His eyes were red and his face was blotchy, but he was not currently crying. The previous fog of sensuality that had hung in the room dissipated in a flash, as Holmes was clearly alarmed by his friends state of disarray. He helped Watson into a chair and knelt in front of him.

"What happened?" he asked gruffly, fearing the worst.

Watson took a moment to collect himself. His voice cracked as he said, "It's Mary."

_To be continued..._

* * *

**A/N: D-D-Dayum Holmes and Clara, you crazy kids! And, I'm sorry! What a cruel way to end it, I know**. **But you all are quite intelligent, and I'm sure you must have _some_ sense of what's going on. Plus, the sequel is coming soon! I didn't think it would be so sad for me to actually finish this first part, but oh well. **

**Oh yeah, and in case any of you didn't know, Marianne Dashwood and Colonel Brandon are from Jane Austen's novel, _Sense and Sensibility._ (Although, I'm sure many of you already knew that).  
**

**Please please pretty please review! :) Especially now, since it's the end of the story. I'd really love to have feedback, ideas, anything, so I can write the next one to the best of my ability. THANK YOU ALL, AND GOOD BYE FOR NOW!**

**XOXOX curlycue2102  
**


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